Aska
by flippist
Summary: Aska means ashes. The ashes that you, son of Hades, rule over. You've always wanted a quest; and now you have one. Join the Norseling. Join her and overthrow Hel. Join her and overthrow your father's kingdom. Join her before the ashes blow away in the wind. Nico/OC done a little differently. T for cursing and violence. ON HIATUS.
1. Gala: Scream

**This fic has been stagnating in my head for three years now. I'm a little out of my comfort zone, I like writing short, more abstract pieces, which is why I prefer the latter half of this chapter. I still couldn't get this over 3,000 words... oh well. Please do tell if there are any errors, spelling, grammar (I'm using my grandmother's twelve year old computer with no spellcheck) and conformity with canon... I don't have the books on hand.**

**I can be honest when I say that I've spent years trying to Unsuefy my OC... at one point I flawed her to the point where she was a completely unlikeable sociopathic serial killer. No joke. She actually has very little characterization in this scene so I think I'm in the clear... please, please tell me if she starts becoming Bella Swan or anything like that.**

**Oh, and one thing I forgot to add when I first published this: this story takes quite a lot of inspiration from the Runemark books by Joanne Harris**

**AND, thank you to my first reviewer who corrected my Nico di Angelo mistake.**

**Anyway, I've harped on enough. (please review! pleasepleasepleaseplease!) Okay, now I'll stop.**

* * *

She's dying. Nico can tell by the prickling at the back of his neck.

"Been like this for two weeks," says the medic. "Some kinda venom. Teared onto the camp like a hellhound was after her, then collapsed on our steps. Weird looking, isn't she?"

She is. You wouldn't call her ugly (or pretty, for that matter), but the planes of her face are inescapably foreign, her cheekbones as sharp as knives. She murmurs in a strange language, then turns onto her stomach, eyelids fluttering with dream.

"She won't respond to anything. She refuses to heal."

"She's dying," says Nico, flatly. If the sickbay is going to drag him in here to stare at the patients and report on the state of their health, he'll dispense with the pleasantries. "I give her a couple of days."

"Faðir," sighs the sleeping girl. It sounds vaguely Scandinavian. Her brow furrows and she shifts more, whimpering. "Kaldr. Snær. Andlát."

Nico leans forward, interested. "What _is _she saying?"

"No clue," comes the reply. "Any manner of things can come out during a fever dream."

"Sási Hel falla," they pause. "Sási Hades falla."

The medic is obviously shocked. "She's never mentioned anything like that before, certainly."

"Olympian forað. Olympian tívar geyma," her voice becomes more urgent. She sits up, her eyes flying open, gaze unfocused. Nico nearly cries out in surprise. "Syna faðir! Olympians geyma! Hades falla! Tell father! The Olympians are watching! Hades will fall!"

She drops back onto the bed, completely unconscious once more.

The prickling at the back of Nico's neck stops. The medic stares at her patient, open-mouthed. "What the hell was that?"

"I don't know," he says, grimly. "But she's not dying anymore."

"Percy?"

"Percy."

* * *

Percy is now nineteen years old- so what is he doing in the middle of Camp Half-Blood? He'd officially left a year ago, and then spent a few months trekking around the country with Annabeth, fighting monsters and doing other Demi-God type things- but he missed it; he missed the legendary status he'd been enjoying among the others; he missed his younger friends; he even missed the lessons. So when he got the iris message asking him to spend a couple of months as a guest teacher for sword-fighting, how could he refuse? Annabeth would have plenty of fun giving lectures on ancient architecture, anyway.

The place has changed a lot since what they now call 'The Gaea Incident'. The portal doorway to Camp Jupiter is probably the strongest evidence of that, as are the Roman kids running around doing Greek taster sessions. A crowd is gathering around the base of the hill. As Percy approaches he's surrounded by angry drone off gossiping voices; he receives a murmured greeting from the congregation.

"Did you hear?" hisses a daughter of Aphrodite. "About that girl, I mean?" He shakes his head no. "Well, _apparently, _Nico was called in to check whether a patient- you know, that one that ran in here completely crazily a few weeks ago- was going to die or not, and she burst into flames and started speaking and tongues and she predicted the end of the _world _and the fall of Olympus, and then she infected Nico and the medic with an evil virus and now they're quarantined."

"No, no," says another girl next to her. "She didn't burst into flames, she started secreting ectoplasm. And Nico didn't get infected, he called up his denizens of the dead to restrain her. It was totally badass."

"How do you know? You weren't there."

"And you _were?" _She spots something behind Percy, and smiles in triumph. "Look, here he comes now. Obviously, he's not 'under quarantine'."

Nico walks up to them. He went through a growth spurt when he was fourteen and is now nearly exactly the same height as Percy, which gives the son of Poseidon a strange sense of nostalgia. He looks relieved.

"Percy," he says. "I've been looking for you everywhere!" he tows him towards the building.

"Some weird stuff's been happening, I hear," his friend comments. "Ectoplasm, huh?"

"What?" replies Nico, confusedly. He shoves open the door, and they are accosted with the scent of disinfectant. "Listen," he says, running his fingers through his dark, messy hair, "I'm dropping you off in her room, then I am _leaving. _You deal with this mess. I am not involving myself with any of this prophecy crap, whether it involves Hades or not."

"Wait," Percy stops. "Prophecy?"

Nico shifts uncomfortably. "It wasn't a _prophecy_ prophecy, but it did feel like she knew... Something. Something not good."

"Something to do with Hades."

"_Tell father! The Olympians are watching! Hades will fall!" _he mutters, imitating her cadence.

They start moving again. "A threat, maybe?" says Percy. "It doesn't sound like a prophecy. At least not one I've ever heard."

"She was speaking this language before it," Nico shudders. "When I heard it then it just sounded foreign, you know? Scandinavian. But it's imprinted itself in my brain, somehow. I remember each word so clearly. _Sási Hel falla. Sási Hades falla._"

They reach another area, a hallway Percy's never known was there. A door at the end of it is open. Annabeth pokes her head out of the room it leads to and glares at them. "Hurry," she says. "She's awake."

The girl is a little younger than Nico, maybe fifteen, with straight chestnut hair that's more red than brown and weary grey eyes. Her gaze seems accusatory as the two demigods enter the room, and she pushes herself closer to the wall, away from Chiron, who is using his wheelchair.

"Ara, you say?" asks the centaur.

"Ay-ra," she replies, annoyed. She has an accent that Nico can't place, with harsh consonants and lilting vowels. "Pronounce 'Ay' as in 'hay' and 'ra' as in 'duh'."

"And you don't remember anything?"

"I remember someone telling me to run," she says. "And I remember this _thing _coming after me, and I remember its teeth around my leg-" she breaks off.

"It's okay to pace yourself," Percy offers her a handshake and a friendly smile, remembering his own bout of amnesia. "I'm Percy Jackson."

She hesitates and then takes his hand. "Ayra Sorensen."

"Unusual name," comments Nico.

She turns to him. "Yes," her tone is laced with hostility. "And you are?"

"Leaving," the son of Hades says. He turns to go, but is stopped by an irate Annabeth.

"This is Nico di Angelo. He's staying," she says.

Something flashes in Ayra's expression. Fear.

_Sási Hades falla _echoes in Nico's mind.

"Where are you from?" says Chiron, coaxingly.

"Denmark," she answers. "I remember my dad putting those little red flags in my birthday cake."

"So you lived with your father?"

"Yes. My mother died when I was young."

Annabeth cuts in. "So what are you doing in New York?"

Ayra closes her eyes. "Running. I was running from-" she cries out in frustration. "I can't remember!"

"I think we'll start with the basics," sighs the centaur, "What do you know of the Greek myths?"

* * *

While Chiron explains, Nico, Annabeth and Percy convene in the hallway.

"She's lying," says Nico, scowling.

"I don't know," Percy glances to the door. "She seemed honest to me."

"Have we considered the possibility that she's Roman? She hasn't been claimed," Annabeth adds. "That reminds me, someone needs to notify Camp Jupiter."

"I already sent a message to Hazel," The other two demigods stare at Nico. "What? And anyway, she could have easily been claimed and then forgotten about it. The whole claiming thing has a lot of loopholes."

Chiron comes out. Percy smiles at him. "How'd it go?"

"Surprisingly well, actually. She's getting some rest."

They begin to leave. Nico loiters around the door.

Annabeth turns around. "You coming?"

"In a bit."

"Suit yourself."

The three disappear from view.

Nico steps back into the room. Ayra is curled into the corner of the bed.

"I don't trust you."

"I know."

"I think you're lying."

She catches his eye. "Why are you telling me this?"

"So that you realise," he replies, "that we're not all Percy Jackson. We're not all going to offer you sympathy and a handshake."

"We both know that, Nico di Angelo, Son of Hades. But I know something you don't. Doesn't that make you angry? Not knowing?" she sounds honestly curious.

"I'll find out eventually."

"Ever patient," she stretches herself out on the bed. "How do you manage it?"

"I have my ways. Olympians geyma, don't they?" He walks out, stopping at the doorway for one last jab. "I was surprised when I plugged that phrase into my laptop a couple of hours ago. I had no idea they still spoke old Norse in Denmark."

* * *

_**Two weeks ago**_

This forest is endless. By this point all she can hear is the squish of the wet leaves under her boots, and all she can see is the dappled sunlight curling around her. But she can smell the decay, the putrefying flesh, and she can imagine the swathes of skin hanging of the yellowing bones.

_The norseling fears death! _Comes the cry. _Feast with us, little one! Join our ranks. We laugh in the face of Hel! What greater gift could one desire?_

The draugar. Their venom is not one of poison, but one of madness. One touch and they crawl into your dreams, wring your brain dry and tear you apart from the inside out. They are not the stuff of nightmares. Nightmares you can wake up from.

She comes face to face with one in the next instant. It is starving, emaciated and rotten. It stinks and her stomach heaves. It has no eyes, just empty cavities of flaking red. It grins a toothless smile.

Her battle axe is in her hand the next instant, summoned with runes. She slices the monster's head off in one, clean motion. The body stumbles but continues to reach out.

_Silly little norseling._

Adrenaline shoots through her system. She hacks blindly until she's surrounded by draugr limbs. Holding back sobs of terror she remembers her father's words:

_They'll be all over you when you get down there. The first one of Norse blood in centuries. They're not just hungry, they're starving. Your best bet is to run, run as fast as you can._

She runs, but she can sense the other draugar. The gateway to the Greek campsite is near. She reaches for it-

A cold, slimy hand closes around her ankle. _We have you now._

It doesn't need to do anything else. It can step away and wait for the madness to kill her, consume her slowly while she writhes on the floor. There is no chance for her when it is so close, it's presence so strong.

If she can get away-

One last chance, then. The madness is worming its way up her spine. It feels like a leech dragging itself across her back. She stands, the world spinning. She can see nonexistent insects crawling up her arm, see skin coloured blobs of flesh hanging from the treetops. The draugr laughs at her, at her futile attempt.

The rune axe has dissipated into nothing. Now all she has is this madness growing inside of her, her bones caging it in.

She wants to let it out.

She _has to _let it out.

She screams. Not the scream you hear in horror movie theatres, not even in situations of real life terror. It is a scream of necessity. It is primal. It makes even the draugr step back. On the other side of the camp, it makes a boy, a boy who knows more than most of death, step back.

She runs. There are no buts this time. The bugs on her arms fly off with the force of the wind. The leech freezes, for just an instant. There is her, and there is her scream. They are two separate entities, working in conjunction.

She runs. She's in the camp now. There are black spots in her vision, and in each black spot there are eyes watching her. She fights them. They find it amusing.

She runs. She knows that when she reaches the little houses at the bottom of the hill, she will succumb. She accepts it. She will endure the weeks of nightmares. She will endure because the scream is leaving her, flying with the wind behind her as she loses her voice. It caresses her face, gains a voice of its own. It speaks to her.

_Tell your father, _says the scream, _that the Olympians are watching. The Olympians are watching, and Hades will fall._

"Syna faðir," she repeats, as she collapses. "Olympians geyma. Hades falla."


	2. Heiðir: Hawk

**So, there's not much Nico in this chapter. I apologise. I guarantee more next time. Also, there's some mildish swearing later on, if anyone cares.**

**The last section of this chapter is a modified retelling of a retelling of a Norse Myth as written by Kevin Crossley-Holland. Basically, he told a norse myth in the penguin book of Norse Myths, then I borrowed a couple of phrases and the essence of the tale then changed the characters, the settings, and the moral, etc. Basically the only similarity is the structure. But all props to him for his fantastic book. If you want to read more into Norse Mythology, it's an excellent source.**

**Also, thanks to my reviewers. Just to let you know that I did fix the Nico surname thing, it's just taking a while to update.**

* * *

It's soon decided that Ayra is a Roman; she's not claimed, and she has some grasp of Latin. It doesn't fit completely, however; and in light of the fact that she's still having 'episodes' during the night, she's being kept in the Greek sickbay until a transfer can be arranged.

The girl is a terrible sword fighter. Annabeth watches, bemused, as Percy knocks the weapon out of her hands the fifth time in a row.

"Stop doing this," he says, demonstrating the hacking motion she uses. "You're acting like it's an axe. It's not. It's a sword. We're demigods, not lumberjacks."

There is a chorus of laughter from the nearby students. Ayra scowls and shifts her position. "Again."

They fight. Her style is so unsuited to her blade, it's comical. Percy wins once more. For now, he is content to teach her, Annabeth to keep a weary eye over things, and Nico to glower at her from across a field.

* * *

"General."

"Colonel," he replies. He pours something that looks like brandy into a crystal glass and offers it to him. The two birds by his side caw at the intruder.

The Colonel smiles with scarred lips and takes the drink. "She made it. It was a close call."

"We both knew that she would. What does she report?"

The smirk melts away. "There are more Olympians than we thought."

The General is impassive to the news. He adjusts his wide-brimmed hat. "Do they suspect?"

The Colonel sits on the sofa opposite to his superior. The fire crackles as if in response. "For the most part, no. She's worried about one of them. He knows too much."

"Who?"

"A son of Hades,"

The General rolls his one eye, and waves his hand dismissively. "We can deal with that later. Call a meeting. We must discuss this with the others."

The Colonel doesn't like this idea at all. "The fewer who know the details, the better."

"They are our brothers in arms."

"They hate me."

"As do I, Loki," the General says as they get up, his voice teasing, "As do I. But she is our weapon first and foremost, and your daughter second."

* * *

They meet in conference room six.

"The Major's smoking again," proclaims a haughty looking woman with shining, golden hair that reaches the floor. Her eyes flash amber under heavy, pale lashes. "I can't think with this stench fogging up my brain."

"Shove it up your arse, Sif," replies the Major. This provokes a growl from the huge, red-haired man sitting beside her. "I told you I'm quitting."

"Children, children," The Colonel sits on the right hand side of the General, who is placed at the head of the table. "Now is no time for petty fights. I'm talking to you, Major."

"Fæn ta deg, Loki," says Freyr, stubbing out his cigarette.

This brings murmurs of agreements from the other occupants of the room.

"First order of business," there is silence as the General starts talking. "Where are the others?"

"Idun wouldn't come because Loki's here," says the red-haired man, Thor. "Same with Heimdall. Skadi refused because she thought she'd have to see Njord. Njord refused because he thought he'd have to see Skadi. The rest are present."

"The rest that are alive, you mean," mutters Sif.

This displeases the General. You can tell by the downwards curve of his mouth and the sudden restlessness of the two ravens perching on his shoulders. He continues on as normal, anyhow. It's what he's always done. "The Aska Project has so far been a complete success," there are relieved sighs from his audience. "No one suspects."

Loki winces. "Apart from-"

"I'll be getting to that later."

"Honestly, I'm not surprised," a gorgeous woman who looks very similar to the Major chips in. Her hair is the fiery red of a Pre-Raphaellite model, curling romantically down her shoulders, and her eyes are clear blue, shooting inviting looks to whomever she looks at. Her face is that of a classical painting, perfectly formed and perfectly unattainable. "She gets her lying skills from her father."

"As interesting a contribution as ever, Freyja."

Before they can start arguing, a man turns to the General. He is swarthier than the others, with black hair and thick eyebrows, but he is still obviously northern, with features too distinct to be from anywhere else. He has only one hand; the right is a stump bound in blue cloth, held protectively on his lap. "The Colonel said something about an exception. Does anyone know?"

The General shakes his head. "There is a son of Hades–"

"You mean Nico di Angelo."

A woman steps into the room. She is shrouded by a cloak so you can't see her features, and her presence has an inescapable aura of fear. It makes the people around her shudder.

"Hel," says the Major.

She nods and sits. "Hello, Freyr."

"You know the boy?" asks Loki.

"I know of him. He's caused quite the stir in Hades. Stole the title of Ghost King from Minos. Some say he could overthrow the place if he wanted to."

"Does he want to?"

"How should I know?"

"Unimportant," says the General. "Is he a threat?"

She shrugs. "He's a wild card. The Olympians are keeping a weary eye on him as well. There's no love lost between them. Why do you think Perseus Jackson was the child of the prophecy?"

"We could recruit him," offers the one-handed man, Tyr.

"Too risky," says Freyr. "He could turn at any moment."

"Not if he and Ayra fell in love," sighs Freyja.

"This is war, not a Jennifer Aniston movie,"

"What's a Jennifer Aniston?"

Loki groans.

"We're getting of topic," Hel reaches out her left hand and begins drumming the table. The skin is grey and bloated, like that of a corpse, and the others watch it in muted horror. "We should kill him and get it over with. Simple enough."

"The Olympians would be angry."

"Then make it look like an accident," she aims her steely gaze at the man sitting to the right side of the general. "You have plenty of experience with that."

There is an uncomfortable silence. It is broken by the Colonel. "There's no way she could pull it off."

The General agrees. "It seems we've reached an impasse,"

"So what do we do?" asks Tyr. "Do we wait? Do we fight? Or do we approach?"

"We question the Wise One," he says, turning to Loki. "Fetch Mímir."

* * *

He returns half an hour later cradling a shrivelled, decapitated head in his arms.

"I despise you, trickster," says Mímir, conversationally. "You should still be tied to that rock."

"I know," replies Loki. "And no one calls me Trickster anymore. It's _so _third century."

It is set onto the table, looking utterly out of place on the shining mahogany.

"Wise One," intones the General. "We seek truth. What is it that you see?"

"I see a Ghost King and a call to arms," it replies, its voice multifaceted, harmonizing with itself, "I see an uprising and a traitor's daughter by His side. I see dead warriors pledge their allegiance to His crown. I see-"

Then it screams. It screams with Ayra's voice, and somehow it speaks _over _that scream. "The Olympians are watching! Hades will fall! The Olympians are watching! Hades will fall!"

It continues, repeating the same phrase over and over. The Gods cower away from it, their hands over their ears. The ravens panic and start tearing through the room blindly.

"The Olympians are watching! Hades will fall!"

"Shut that thing UP!" yells Loki. "Bloody Hel!"

"Excuse me!" Hel shouts, affronted. It's difficult to tell whether it's aimed at him or the bird that just ran its talons over her scalp.

"The Olympians are watching! Hades will fall!"

Sif wails in frustration. "Make it STOP!"

Thor roars and smashes Mímir with both his fists. The screaming cuts off abruptly.

"Thor," says Freyr, half admiring, half mad, "I think you just _broke _the Wise One."

"Oops."

"Oops?" cries the Colonel. "No, you bastard, not _oops! You just ruined our only prophet! _What in Niflheim are we going to do now?"

"Quiet, everyone. Our seer is just in shock," the General gazes searchingly at the head. "A Ghost King and a call to arms. The Ghost King is obviously the son of Hades, then. But a call to arms?"

"It probably refers to the uprising in the next line," says Tyr.

"And the Traitor is me, so that means the daughter is Ayra," Loki says. The others look at him. He sighs. "In all of the five hundred prophecies we've been given, four hundred and ninety-six have referred to a traitor, and four hundred and ninety-five times that traitor has been me. One time it was Freyr when he had a one-night stand with a daughter of Aphrodite."

"Oh, that," chuckles the Major. "That was one crazy decade. To be honest with you, I don't remember the vast majority of the eighteenth century."

"I do," says Tyr. "You became a pirate, didn't you, Colonel? Bloody Sam Crawshank, was it?"

"_My point is,_ we can pretty much assume that the prophecy is about Nico di Angelo and my daughter leading an uprising," Loki leans back in his chair. "By the way, it was _John_, not Sam."

* * *

_Do you want to hear a story?_

_Do you know who can hear the sound of grass growing? Do you know who never sleeps, who never closes his eyes?_

_He has many names. I think today we'll call him Hawk-Eye, for he has the sharpness of that very creature, and the nobleness, too._

_But this figure standing on the seashore; who would know of his accomplishments? He is dressed simply, and he carries no weapon, no obvious sign of power._

_**But, look**- he reaches a shack. It is derelict. It stinks of manure and unwashed people. He knocks on the door and enters. The rough-hewn floor scratches red lines on his bare feet._

_In the middle of the room crouch two figures. They are The Damned. They have been judged._

_"Am I welcome?" asks Hawk-Eye._

_"Who do you speak for?" say The Damned._

_"The Ghost King," replies Hawk-Eye._

_"You are welcome," say The Damned._

_So Hawk-Eye joins The Damned. He speaks honeyed words, as he well knows how, and in no time he wins the best position by the fire. And when the time comes to rest, he wins the best bed, and spends the night imagining the stars._

_For three nights he stays with The Damned. Then the time comes for him to leave._

_"Will you follow Him?" asks Hawk-Eye._

_"Who does He speak for?" say The Damned._

_"You, and all others, and no one else," replies Hawk-Eye._

_"We will follow Him," say The Damned._

_**And, now**- he reaches a palace. It is opulent. It shines with gold and marble in the sunlight. He bangs on the great door and enters. The servants wash his bare feet._

_In the middle of the great hall sit two figures. They are The Blessed. They have been judged._

_"Am I welcome?" asks Hawk-Eye._

_"Who do you speak for?" say The Blessed._

_"The Ghost King," replies Hawk-Eye._

_"You are welcome," say The Blessed._

_So Hawk-Eye joins The Blessed. He speaks honeyed words, as he well knows how, and in no time he wins the best position by the fire. And when the time comes to rest, he wins the best bed, and spends the night imagining the stars._

_For three nights he stays with The Blessed. Then the time comes for him to leave._

_"Will you follow Him?" asks Hawk-Eye._

_"Who does He speak for?" say The Blessed._

_"You, and all others, and no one else," replies Hawk-Eye._

_"We will follow Him," say The Blessed._

_**And, finally**- he reaches a field. It is bathed in sunlight and shadowed by clouds. It grows lush and the ground is barren. He opens the gate and enters. There is no feeling in his bare feet._

_In the middle of the field stand two figures. They are The Unheard. They have not been judged._

_"Am I welcome?" asks Hawk-Eye._

_"Who do you speak for?" say The Unheard._

_"The Ghost King," replies Hawk-Eye._

_"You are welcome," say The Unheard._

_So Hawk-Eye joins The Unheard. He speaks honeyed words, as he well knows how, but they will not listen._

_For three nights he stays with The Unheard. Then the time comes for him to leave._

_"Will you follow Him?" asks Hawk-Eye._

_"Who does He speak for?" say The Unheard._

_"You, and all others, and no one else," replies Hawk-Eye._

_"We will follow Him," say The Unheard. "We will follow him, and The Damned will follow him, and The Blessed will follow him. But He shall know this; that two have come before Him, and one has lost, and one will lose. For someday there will come a time when he shall lose, too."_

Nico wakes up.


	3. Spá: Prophecy

**To be honest I'm not very happy with this chapter. It's okay, but not up to the standards of the others (at least in my view!). Anyway, I want to take the time to thank all of my reviewers. It's been so encouraging to hear your thoughts! Thank you soooo much. Anyway, enjoy!**

* * *

If you search for Hawk-Eye on Google, the first result you get is for the comic book superhero. The second is for a computer system used in sports.

If you search for The Damned, the first result you get is a British Punk-Rock group from London. The second is a 1969 movie about the dramatic collapse of a wealthy industrialist family during the reign of the Third Reich.

If you search for The Blessed, you get two entries from the Catholic Encyclopaedia, an 'official demon hunter community', and pure 100% cold pressed black seed oil from The Blessed Seed Company.

Finally, if you search the Unheard, you get another band and The Unheard: A Memoir of Deafness and Africa, wherein a young man's quest to reconcile his deafness in an unforgiving world leads to a remarkable sojourn in a remote African village that pulsates with beauty and violence. Nico doesn't feel that his dream was a remarkable sojourn in a remote African village. He supposes it could be described as pulsating with beauty and violence- except that there wasn't any violence, just an incredible sense of foreboding.

Sighing, he gets up from his folded position on he bed and puts his laptop away. Outside, the rain hammers on the window of his cabin. He presses his eye to the glass and delights in the blurry, marbled painting of the outside world, verdant under the clouds and the setting sun. Then a child of Aphrodite runs past him with a jumper over her head, screaming about the state of her hair. It kills the moment somewhat.

He knows what he has to do, and he really doesn't want to do it; but the dream shudders in his skull, pounds in his ears, asking him to unravel it. He may be content to not know things when the answers will eventually come, but this, so introspective and private, does not invite patient waiting.

So he walks over to the sickbay without bothering to take the umbrella. The rain is strong, because the strawberries need it; he can feel the droplets saturating his hair and his aviator jacket, steadily altered and enlarged over the years, with damp. Panicking people run past him every so often complaining about the weather. Unfortunately, when he reaches her room, it's empty. He groans and retraces his path.

Halfway back to his own cabin he notices a figure sitting on the beach. Rolling his eyes, he shadow travels next to her.

Ayra shrieks in surprise. "What the Hel?"

"Nice to see you, too," he replies, shouting over the wind.

She scowls and turns away from him. "What do you want?"

"Who's Hawk-Eye?"

"Go away."

"Not until you tell me."

"He's a Marvel character."

Nico laughs. "So is Thor," he says, "and Loki."

"Fæn ta deg," she gets up. "Why do you want to know, anyway?"

"That's not important."

She smirks, her eyes flashing dangerously. "A dream, perhaps?"

"How did you-"

"I know plenty about nightmares, son of Hades," she folds her arms over her chest. They are both shivering and soaked to the bone with sea spray and rainwater.

"So tell me."

"Never. Now leave me alone."

"Or what?" he says. "You'll force me?"

Ayra lifts up her right hand. Her fingers are twisted strangely, and something is growing between them. It looks like filaments of light, glowing silver. "I could."

Perhaps it is the rain, or the crunch of the wet sand under his feet, but Nico feels _exhilarated. _He can sense the underworld lying beneath him, the rocks crushed into the seabed. His powers flex.

He wants a fight.

"I doubt it," he says.

His tone is inviting her to act. The light grows stronger and the filaments grow clearer; they create the shape of an H with the horizontal line set diagonally. Nico doesn't know it, but it is _Hagalaz _of the Elder Script, the rune of Hail and destruction, and if it hits him it could knock him out cold for the better part of the day.

"Go," she hisses, "Or I swear on the eleven rivers, I will throw this."

A swear on the eleven rivers is the Norse equivalent of swearing on Styx. Nico realises this and still stands his ground.

The light explodes from Ayra's fingers and in his direction. A great wall of black stone rises in front of him and absorbs the blow before melting back into the ground. The earth shudders, but Ayra is already forming another rune, _isaz, _or ice. She throws it before it grows strong enough to do any real damage; her opponent is only thrown off momentarily by the cold feeling in his shoulder before he retaliates with a wave of sand that knocks her off her feet. As she flies into the air she still manages to shoot off another weak _Hagalaz _that hits his side, leaving him winded and on his knees.

Both demigods take a few minutes to recover. Ayra gets up first and stumbles towards him.

"I have to admit," she wheezes, "that was quite impressive."

He lifts himself to his feet, slowly, painfully, "Will you tell me now?"

She sighs, resigned. "Hawk-Eye probably refers to Heimdall," her legs are still shaking after her involuntary flight so she sits down again. "He's the God that watches over the rainbow bridge and waits for Ragnarok. Loki's biggest enemy. He never sleeps and has the best eyesight in the world. But I think the real question is what he was doing in your dream," she looks at him expectantly.

_An eye for an eye, I guess. _He describes the dream to her.

"That sounds very similar to the myth of how Heimdall created the Viking social classes," she says, frowning. "I've never come across anything like The Damned, The Blessed, or The Unheard before, though. The Ghost King- that's _you_, isn't it?"

"It used to be King Minos," he replies. "I stole the title. I was thinking that the others could be people who go to Hades- The Damned in Tartarus, The Blessed in Elysium, and The Unheard in Asphodel."

"But The Unheard said they weren't judged."

"Maybe they weren't. Not properly."

"I suppose."

They are still as they muse this over, Ayra sitting on the sand and Nico standing, pelted with the dwindling rain, a strange, tentative truce between them forming. They come to the realisation at the same time, but she is the first to speak.

"That means," she says, "that you dreamt of a Norseman getting the underworld to swear allegiance to you."

"But was it a dream?" Nico faces the ocean as the last of the rain spends itself on the waves. "Or a prophecy?"

* * *

_18th February, 1131 A.D (translated from Old Norse)_

_General,_

_I am afraid to say that I heard disturbing news yesterday, Sir. Far be it from me to question you decisions, but I must make it known that I feel that releasing the Colonel will not give us an advantage against the Olympians. Of course, he is a brilliant military strategist, but he has no sense of loyalty and will readily join the Greek scum the moment they offer him a better deal. Will we really entrust him with our future, our intelligence? I sorely hope not! We are greatly outnumbered as it is. The Olympians have so many children, and with it being near impossible for us to produce demigods with the incompatibility of our genes, I fear the end is in sight. The needless risk taken in allowing The Colonel freedom is far too dangerous at this point. _

_I must advise that we begin negotiations. We have lost so many of our brethren, not fifteen of us remain to command the unruly giants and dwarves that our force is made up of. We are no match against them. They are willing to allow us freedom if we live separate from the mortals and produce no heirs. I believe this is the best action to take._

_With greatest regards,_

_Captain Heimdall_

* * *

When the book is dropped onto Loki's lap a puff of dust hits him in the face, provoking a coughing fit that lasts a good five minutes. Freyr frowns at him until he's finished, then hits him on the back so hard that he yelps in pain.

"That was just mean," complains the Colonel.

"I know," says Freyr. "Four hundred and five."

He flips to the corresponding page. It's dated 1863. "This is the Wanderer prophecy," he notes. "We assumed it was about Ragnarok."

"A lot of things we assumed we now realise are wrong," the Major nods at the sprawling script. "I think it's referring to this whole uprising business."

"I see a wanderer speak honeyed words," he reads. "I see judgement for the Unheard. I see a Mighty King welcomed. I see one lost, one losing, and one waiting for his time." he shakes his head. "It's too vague. Could be about anything."

"I thought that too. But Heimdall managed to overhear a Greek Prophecy yesterday," he takes back the book and skips forward, "Here: They shall coax the dead to trust/ the king of ashes turned to dust/ in uprising the ghosts will stand/ and Hades fall under his hand. There's more along the same lines. The Romans also received it."

The Colonel huffs and pulls the tome back. Murmuring to himself, he thumbs through the pages and rips out an early entry, stuffing it in his pocket. Freyr glares at him, accusatory.

"What?" he says. "That was a dark period in my history, okay? How was I supposed to know she was the King's daughter?"

The Major rolls his eyes. "What do we do? About the prophecy, I mean?"

Loki grins, the scars on his lips making the action more menacing than it should. "Time to tell The General."

* * *

_They shall coax the dead to trust_

_The King of Ashes turned to dust_

_In uprising the ghosts will stand_

_And Hades fall under his hand._

_The daughter must not stand alone_

_Or Ghost King then will be dethroned_

_And wind will toll a timely knell;_

_Their blood will run through Asphodel._

_Take heed of this, or they'll be found_

_Unheard and dead within the ground_

_Those wanderers have long to wait_

_For passage into that cruel fate._

* * *

Everyone is talking about the new prophecy. The most important of the demigods, both Greek and Roman, are meeting in the Senate House of Camp Jupiter. Chiron stand up at the front.

"Now," the centaur says. "We've looked at the new prophecy, and so far all we've figured out is that it involves the Ghost King, which is a title given to Nico di Angelo, son of Hades."

Nico stands up from his place, looking sheepish.

"What does the Ambassador of Pluto have to do with this?" questions one of the senators.

"I took the title of Ghost King from Midas," he explains, obviously used to the statement. "But I have no intention of uprising or ruling Hades or having blood run through Asphodel. Just thought I should make that clear." Then he sits down again.

"He could be dangerous," says another. "We should have him locked up."

Hazel cries out in protest. "You can't do that! What happened to innocent until proven guilty?"

"Do we have no idea who the daughter is?" says Percy. "It would probably help some."

"It could be referring to you, Levesque," replies someone else. "You're a daughter of Pluto, after all."

"Could this have something to do with Ayra?" Annabeth gazes searchingly at the others. "She's supposed to be moving over here tomorrow. What with the strange things that happened when she arrived, it's entirely possible she has something to do with this."

"I think you people are over-reading this," says Nico. "Ghost King could easily be referring to the ghost of a king. It doesn't have to be me."

The room erupts into debate. Nico sighs and turns longingly to the door, then winces at the pain in his side, where the rune hit him. He now has a bruise there in the perfect shape of _Hagalaz. _At its current state, pinkish and raised, it looks like a slave-brand. He gets up and walks quietly out of the hall.

No one notices the ravens following him, flying out of the window and into the northern winds.


	4. Skóð: Weapon

**This will probably be the last update for a week or so, as I have summer exams. Sigh. Anyway, thank you so much for the incredible feedback once again! I fear that this chapter just creates more questions than answers them, which is not what I intended. Oh well. **

**Please please please review! Every time I see I have some more feedback it makes my day. Sad, but true. It gives me great happiness. It makes updates faster. In short, there's absolutely no reason why you shouldn't take the time. Sorry if I sound whiney, but I live off those things. No joke.**

**EDIT 12/6/12: I've changed Ayra's last name on the recommendation of a couple of friends.**

* * *

_16 Years Ago_

"Hello," says the man. "I'm here about the infestation."

Lise Sorensen stares at the twenty-something stranger standing in front of her. He has reddish brown hair and bizarre green eyes the colour of antifreeze; his facial structure is that of a skinny Greenlander, but his skin is pale.

"You're not the one they normally send," she draws herself away from him. There is something about the flashing of his gaze and the near-imperceptible, silvery scars on his lips that makes her heart quicken, makes her want to run away. "And you were supposed to come tomorrow. I think you should –"

He pushes past her and into the apartment. "Sorry, no time for chatting. Where did you say the sounds were coming from?"

"I didn't say–"

A scratching noise comes from behind the kitchen wall. The man grins dangerously and walks slowly to the other end of the open-plan space. If Lise would take a moment to remove herself from her confusion she would notice the faint red light peeking through his left fist; as it is she glowers, and follows him. "What are you–"

Without turning, he reaches his right arm behind him and places a finger on her lips. "Shhhh."

He moves, suddenly. A spark of scarlet light tears its way into the wall. Something that looks like a mirrored N burns itself into her gaze and a gaping cavity is blown into the cream stucco.

Lise shrieks. "Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod what did you do–"

A lizard, around the length of her arm, crawls out of the smoking hole. It hisses at them and scrabbles onto the counter. The man jumps in an attempt to get a hold of it but flies over the island instead, breaking his fall with an impressive somersault.

"What are you standing there for?" he calls, dusting himself off. "Catch it!"

She tries to grab its tail but it twists around and nips her on finger. Crying out in pain, she withdraws for a second, giving it enough time for it to hop onto a different platform.

The platform is the man's head. Yelping, he yanks the thing off of his skull, taking a few strands of hair with it. The lizard squirms and slips out of his grasp, making a mad dash across the linoleum. They leap for it at the same time, crashing in a mad tangle of limbs and pained grunts. He somehow ends up a little ways away from her, crouching, clutching the creature triumphantly.

"I knew I'd find you eventually," he tells it, "sneaky little bastard."

It growls in reply and unsuccessfully tries to bite his ear. He chuckles and pulls something that looks like blue ribbon out of his pocket, wrapping its muzzle closed and its limbs together. "Gleipnir," he says, at her questioning glance. "Strongest binding on earth. The sound of a cat's footfall, the beard of a woman, the roots of a mountain, the sinews of a bear, the breath of a fish, and the spittle of a bird were used to make it."

"Don't be ridiculous," she replies. "That's impossible."

"So is having a baby lindworm living in your apartment," he smirks. "And yet, here we are."

"But–"

"I'm sorry about the wall, by the way," he stands and tucks the lindworm under his arm. "All for the greater good, you understand. These things are in short supply at the moment, what with the Greeks running around and killing them off, expecting them to pop into existence again."

He walks towards the door. She goes after him, placing a hand on his arm before he can leave. "Wait–"

He gives her an expectant look. _He thinks I'm angry with him_, she realises. _I should be, shouldn't I? But…_

She strengthens her resolve. "I don't suppose you'd like to go out for coffee sometime, would you?"

He smiles.

* * *

In Nico's personal view, the intercamp game of Siege is one of the worst ideas anyone's ever come up with. After three years of fierce competition between the Romans and the Greeks, a culmination of the hostility, fought on the field of Mars, will end in nothing but trouble. Thankfully, the Greeks are on the defence, so Nico can get away with taking a less active role. Unthankfully, this means that Ayra is on the offense, and her foreboding (if playful) goodbye to the son of Hades was that 'the rematch will have a clearer winner'. Remembering the bite of a _weak_ rune is enough to make him nervous.

Him and Percy, being the scariest and most powerful demigods respectively, are stationed right by the banners, in a little courtyard inside the fortress (which, according to the son of Poseidon, is much bigger than 'last time'.) Percy, an 'honorary competitor', is kitted out with his shield and Riptide, looking regal and heroic and altogether annoyingly cheerful. Nico abstains from armour, content with his sword. He often wishes his sword had a name. There is something so powerful about _Anaklusmos_, especially when compared to 'Stygy', the nickname he gave his own weapon when it was first received.

_Epilasis._

Percy turns to him, frowning. "What did you say?"

"Nothing," he replies, confused. "I didn't say anything."

"Yes you did. Something about… oblivion?"

"But I didn't–"

_Epilasis._

"There. You said it again."

That's when Nico sees the dark-haired man hiding behind one of the pillars. He winks at him, and gestures to the sword with a stub of an arm wrapped in blue cloth.

_Epilasis._

Then he pulls his cloak around him and disappears into the shadows.

Nico stares after him, in shock.

"Are you okay?" asks his friend. "What happened?"

"Nothing," The signal is sounded and there is an audible roar, accompanied by the trumpeting of an elephant, as the Romans begin their attack. Percy shifts into a ready position and Nico rolls his eyes. "You can relax, you know. We're not in the middle of a training session."

He nods and eases his stance. Nico runs his thumbs over the hilt of Stigy– of _Epilasis_, or _Oblivion_– and sighs, accompanied by a cacophony of far-off shouts and shooting Ballistae.

Before anyone can say anything more, there is a great bang and something barrels into Nico, sending him (and the unknown missile) skidding across the floor. He groans in pain.

"Sorry," speaks the missile, pulling itself away from him. It's Ayra, a red gash in her forehead wet and fresh.

"Woah," Percy says. "Are you okay?"

"I think so. I was sword fighting with someone and then there was this explosion–"

"Explosion?" he frowns. "That's against the rules."

"Not to mention _dangerous_," adds Nico. Of course she _had_ to slam into the side that was already sore.

"I have to tell someone," Percy tears out of the room, leaving him crumpled on the floor and Ayra sitting cross-legged blinking blood out of her eyes.

"Did you see him?" she demands.

"Who?"

"Tyr."

"Do you mean the man with one hand? That was one of your people? What is he doing here?"

"I don't know!" she places her head on her knees. "I don't know what's going on anymore. I don't understand what I'm doing. I don't know what side–" then she looks at him straight on. "But that doesn't matter," she says, her gaze oddly frantic. "What side are _you_ on?"

"I don't have a side," he replies. "I'm not so good with loyalty."

She laughs. "You sound like my father. So, no sense of loyalty. Is that your fatal flaw?"

"No. I hold grudges."

This seems to surprise her. "Really? I have a short temper. It runs in the family," then she exhales slowly, as if making a decision. "There's been talk," she says, "of allying with– with–"

"With?"

"With _you_," she spits out. "The prophecy worries them. You're powerful, more powerful than you think you are, and they want to use that. You know so much already, and yet you don't tell anything to the Olympians. You're an enigma, Nico di Angelo, a formidable enigma. The perfect weapon." She sounds almost jealous, like she's forcing herself to say it.

Nico is stunned. "Those don't seem like compelling reasons to join you."

"But they're better than the Olympians'. Percy Jackson is their weapon. They cling so hard to him, to his legacy, that they don't see what's in front of them. They don't want to use you, they want to suppress you. Perhaps we're the lesser of two evils, but we _are_ the lesser."

"So what are you offering?"

She freezes, surprised. "You're considering it?"

His answer is interrupted by a great surge of fighting Romans and Greeks bursting through the door, Percy at the forefront.

They leap to their feet, Nico drawing Epilasis. Ayra starts running towards the banners.

"What are you– oh," Nico forgets for a second that they are on different teams.

Him and a few other Greeks chase after her, but even though they catch her eventually, it is too late. A few metres off, Hazel has the prize in her hands.

"Long rule the Romans!" she laughs, as she is carried on Frank's shoulders.

Percy sighs next to him. "It seems the only way we can get ourselves to work together is if we have a common enemy."

* * *

_The Olympians propose to receive the surrender of the Norse army on the following terms, to wit: The Norse Gods in question to accede all power over their territories to Olympian control, all but one of their halls, Valhalla, to be demolished, the surviving hall shifted to a plane inaccessible by mortals without direct access granted by an Olympian God, all longstanding contact with mortals to be ceased at once, any contact with Olympian demigods or monsters to be ceased at once, and acceptance of the absolute binding law that no children shall be had between two Gods or between a God and a mortals. A breach of these laws will be punishable by death or eternal punishment, not only for the Gods involved but also for demigods and mortals as well._

_Anything but complete recognition of these terms by the Norse Army will not be accepted by Olympian forces and will result in further conflict._

* * *

That night he goes down to the beach again.

He thinks of Ayra's proposal. He wonders why he even considers it.

He wonders about what she said about Percy.

Is it true? Do the Olympians cling to Percy because they're sure of his loyalty, his capability? Are the Gods really suppressing Nico's own powers?

Could he be as powerful as Percy?

He remembers the wall of sand he raised not four days ago. He remembers his undead armies and Epilasis by his side.

He remembers the prophecy and his dream.

And there, sitting under a dark, cloudy sky, the seed of a dangerous idea begins to germinate in his mind.

Could _he_, Nico di Angelo, rule Hades? Would he want to? Could he _be_ someone, do something great; make a mark on this world of heroes and monsters? It always seemed something reserved for either those untouchable, unblemished people like Jason and Annabeth and Percy, or for the undisputable evil of those like Kronos and his followers. Nico isn't a poster child for the Great Olympian cause, nor is he pure evil. He just _is_. A wild card. Raw energy.

If he joins the Norse, there will be war. People will die. The same will also take place if he doesn't; but his choice will, ultimately, affect the outcome.

It's at that moment that Nico realises the power in his hands.

* * *

He waits. He waits and he quivers, and he rumbles with the shifting plates of the earth beneath him. He is not eternal, he is primordial. Born not millions of years ago but in a moment of misplaced desire.

When they bound him they promised no reconciliation.

When his jaws closed around the hand of his captor they promised no respite.

So he waits. He waits for all the little threads woven into these infinitesimal specks of time to come together under fate's steady hand.

Wars have past him by. Lives have past him by. He is not eternal, but neither are they.

The time draws ever closer. He roars. His shoulders ripple under the section of Gleipnir that keeps him trussed up on this island like a carcass after the slaughter.

He sends his master visions during his sleep. The Damned, The Blessed, The Unheard. They will all fall under His jurisdiction someday. And soon he will come to His aid. The Ghost King is waiting for his most loyal follower.

This trussed-up carcass has no love lost for the Norse despite his bloodline. He has no love lost for the man that was his father, nor his sister or brother, nor for the long awaited half-sibling he has never met. From the moment of his conception he has known his true purpose– and it is not to kill the General on the earth's last battlefield. He will stand by _His_ side in the uprising. The fields of Hades will run red with every last drop of Olympian blood. And when He is placed on his throne with the traitor's daughter by His side, the spirit of the Ghost King's greatest warrior will break free from its invisible chains, and its body will turn to ashes; ashes dissolving in the eleven rivers, into the essence of Dream.

When the time comes, Gleipnir simply falls away, and Fenrir, lupine son of Loki, howls at the trembling moon.


	5. Gráðr: Hunger

**I'm soo sorry that this is a whole week late! Exams took a lot more out of me than I thought they would, and then we got our results, and it was my birthday… I just had so little time. Anyways, here's the chapter, hope you enjoy it!**

* * *

Her eyes are cold. He tries to move, but he feels dizzy just shifting. "Where am I?" he asks. "What–"

The memories come flooding back. _Come with me. They want to speak to you. _A clearing in the forest. Metal hitting him on the back of his head.

"You–" he chokes out.

"Yes, me," his captor snaps back. "I realised something yesterday."

He raises himself up. Rope is tied around his wrists. He flexes his arms and feels its fragility, feeling drained; he can't shadow travel back to the camp. He curses under his breath. "Oh?"

"Yes," comes the reply. "I have to kill you."

This gives him pause. "I thought we were–"

"What? Allies? _Friends?_" Ayra laughs. "Hardly. I always knew that you'd die eventually. That's why I was so willing to tell you so much," she sighs. "I thought I wouldn't be the one to do it. I was so sure that the General would give the order. Unfortunately it seems I must to take matters into my own hands."

He stills for a moment, processing. "The prophecy…"

"_I'll _fulfil the prophecy without you," she hisses. "I don't need you to push your way into my life and worm your way into my head. Your kind are all murderers. Despicable."

For the first time, Nico sees it. That flash in her eyes that he has always interpreted as inquisitiveness is, in reality, an emotion much darker. It is hate, hate not of him specifically but of the entire race he belongs to. It is one of ignorance, but more so of association. They are helping the gods that have suppressed her. They are the Olympians.

The rope snaps and he surges to his feet

"You," he says, "are not very good at tying knots."

She scowls. A weapon materialises in her hands, a curving axe of iridescent runes. "If you come any closer–"

"I'll beat you," he chuckles. "You know I will. I'm more powerful."

She nods in acceptance of the fact. "If that's the case, I'll take you down with me. You can't get away."

"I don't understand," he says. "Why does it make you feel so proud to dispatch a child of Hades? A Greek? What did I ever do to you?"

"You took everything away!" she cries. "The three Norselings before me! My freedom! Everything!"

"Yes, you're ever so special," he sneers. "The last one of your kind and entitled to the purest of poetic justice. Do you consider personal revenge more important than family loyalty?"

She shrieks like a wild thing and throws herself at him. He sidesteps her easily, leaving her dishevelled in the dirt.

Pulsating silver _kaunaz_ is flung at him. It is weak, but hits him in the centre of his stomach. The rune of sickness washes over him, and, retching, he turns away, distracted by severe waves of nausea.

She swings her weapon towards his neck.

The earth responds to Nico's situation by shaking violently, throwing her aim as he empties the contents of his stomach into a nearby bush. He swings around.

Stygian iron and runelight meet, a piercing metal squeal ringing through the clearing. Using pure force he knocks the battle-axe out of her hands. It dissipates when it hits the ground.

Realising her inferiority in hand-to-hand combat, Ayra fires off a quick succession of flaming _sōwulō_s from her fingers. He dodges most of them but one scrapes across his shoulder, scalding him.

"You can't win!" he shouts. "Give up! You're letting them get to you! You're awarding the Olympians a victory!"

The last rune falls to the grass, fading away like extinguished embers. She stares at him, wide eyed, as the gravity of her actions closes around her.

She shatters. Her defeat is palpable as she slumps. "I'm a liar," she whispers. "A traitor. Just like my father."

Nico takes advantage of the brief ceasefire, feeling the tender, burnt skin on his right shoulder and the churning of his abdomen. If anything, he is more exhausted than before. He'll have to walk home in the blue-tinged light of near dusk.

"Come back with me," he says, soothingly. "We can talk." _With you behind bars._

Light gleams through her closed fist. _Jera, _the rune of time, crossed with _berkana, _the rune of rebirth. "I can make you forget," she mutters solemnly. "We can go on as normal."

"No!" He steps back in alarm. "Don't–"

Two things happen at once.

Firstly, Ayra shoots the rune. It's potent and has the ability to erase a good three or four days of memory. Her aim is good. It heads straight for Nico's temple.

Secondly, a monster bursts out of the woods.

The rune is absorbed harmlessly into the creature's great flank. It is a wolf, pure white with hoary eyes, three meters tall, the size of a huge stallion and snarling with enormous canines. It roars at Ayra.

The beast rumbles. It has no language, only pure intention echoing in the mind. _You will not harm the King. He is our destiny._

The son of Death raises Epilasis shakily. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"

The wolf bows its head to him. _I am Fenrir, fen-dweller, and I have come to serve you in the battle for Hades._

* * *

Ayra and Nico don't realise the magnitude of their fight. The earthquake that throws off her aim spreads all the way down to the camp and into the underworld below.

A man pushing a boulder up a hill smiles when he feels the rumble of the earth above him.

"Hear that, Tantalus?"

Tantalus, standing in a neck high pool of water, takes a break from trying to reach the bunch of grapes dangling above him. "What?"

"It's the sound of revolution, my dear man." The boulder reaches the top of the hill and then rolls down again. He groans.

"Revolution?" Tantalus asks, giving up on the grapes and trying to drink from the water, which quickly recedes. "It's just an earthquake."

"An earthquake caused with Divine power."

"A new power in Tartarus? One that could liberate us?"

"Perhaps," Sisyphus begins his task once more. "Perhaps."

"A titan?"

"A King," he says. "A king of Ghosts."

The second of the deposed kings turns back to the fruit and sighs as the water level rises once more. "You mean the son."

"I do,"

"He will win us our freedom?"

"I don't know," Sisyphus scowls. "But when the time for battle approaches, we must be sure to be on the right side."

* * *

**One Day Earlier**

Noon. The first humans Fenrir comes across are farmers. Their home is a huge estate surrounded by fields of corn. He snaps up a rabbit in his jaws– a mere snack– and lollops to the east, trampling grain under his feet.

The first shot hits him right between the ears. His hide is too thick for the bullet to penetrate; it rebounds off his skull and lands in the dirt.

"Demon!" yells the man from a good ten meters away. "Get out of my harvest!"

Fenrir looks curiously at the person in front of him. He snorts in derision and begins to walk away.

"That's right!" the man laughs triumphantly. "There's no demon that can mess with me! Damn straight!"

If there's one thing the fen-dweller can't stand, it's arrogance. _Silly little mortal,_ he says._ Why do you whine so? _

He has half a mind to kill him just to shut him up.

"Demon talks," says the farmer, stumped. He raises his rifle shakily. Another bang rings out. Another slight twinge is felt in the base of the wolf's throat.

Anger wells up inside Fenrir. He pounces.

The man will not laugh triumphantly again.

He has no mind to partake in human flesh, so he leaves the body among the crops, melting back into the earth, down to Hel. Full circle. It's not pleasant for him to kill those of Midgard, as inconsequential as they are. His burst of incense annoys him, as losses of control often do. He wonders if such acts madden the King. He supposes so.

The midday sun glints too much on his snowy coat. It makes it hard for him to catch the martens slipping through the undergrowth, invisible amongst the mossy trees. His is a pelt made for cold winters in Niflheim, not this soft, dappled light. He can't even find mud or waste to roll in to disguise its glare.

Niflheim is gone now. If he were to live when this is over, he would take residence in somewhere in Greenland or the Poles, where the sun only shines for half of the year and all colour is bleached from the land. He enjoys the occasional penguin, a polar bear to fight, a leopard seal to grapple with in gelid water and tear into by the bank. That is paradise to a creature of feral nature.

But he doesn't have to live when the war is done. It will end for him, finally; it is better that way. No more purpose. No more morals to uphold.

Why uphold them now?

Stomach growling, he makes his way back to the farm.

Unfortunately, when he returns, a woman is standing over the body. She is pretty, a great mass of curly black hair and hazel eyes, pleasantly plump with tanned skin and a long, checkered dress. A normal looking mortal, were it not for the celestial bronze scythe in her hands.

"Why him?" she screeches, brandishing the blade. "Why him? _I'm_ the demigod, why did you take him?"

With a growing feeling of dread, Fenrir realizes that he has killed the husband of an Olympian. The daughter of a fertility goddess, from the way the crushed corn is springing to life around her. He tries to communicate his regret to her.

_I will leave you to mourn,_ he tells her. _I have no current issue with you. Our time for battle will come_.

"Monster," she says.

The vegetation around him quivers, maize rising up on elongating stalks and crowding around him, curling around his enormous legs. With a roar he breaks himself free, memories of Gleipnir filling his mind.

_(The sound of a cat's footfall_

_The beard of a woman_

_The roots of a mountain_

_The sinews of a bear_

_The breath of a fish_

_The spittle of a bird)_

Never underestimate a child of Demeter. Weeds spring from the ground, grow over the wolf's hide; cage him in stems and sepals.

The woman's grief is great but the Fen-Dweller's strength is greater.

She collapses, sobbing, as his claws and teeth shred the last of the plants.

"Kill me," she moans. "I can't live without him."

_I have no time for mercy._

"Please,"

_You will have your time for revenge._

"If I die, I'll be with him again. In Hades."

_Hades will soon be a battleground,_ he informs her. _You do not wish to be there._

"What kind of monster are you?" she asks. "I have heard things… things of a Roman camp…" she looks up at him, searching, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Of wolves training Latin-speaking demigods…"

_You speak of Lupa? _He roars in amusement. _She lives? She aids the Olympian gods?_

Another memory hits him. Her visits in the first few months of his entrapment, her concocted love story and his rejection of her. Her spite. Fenrir and Lupa, and tragic romance to rival that of Echo and Narcissus.

He laughs harder. The woman curls up in a fetal position beside the body.

_These lives of ours! _His merriment is near hysterical. _Look at all of us, revolving around each other in our quest for significance! These petty games! Our misery when they are lost! What pointless struggle! What fleeting contentment!_

He only leaves, reluctant, when he detects a faint tremor in the ground. Runes being thrown. A pair of Kings chatting in the depths of Tartarus. Ayra and Nico revolving around each other in their quest for significance, playing her petty games, drowning in her misery when it is lost.

He never did relieve his hunger.


	6. Fólkhagi: Leader

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* * *

It is hours after Fenrir's arrival and a brief, confusing explanation. Ayra has been silent, guiltily staring at the ground and offering occasional apologies for her breakdown for the whole time. They shift, the tension in the air palpable.

The wolf stares at both of them and growls. _Now is the time for action, _he reminds them. _What is your bidding, your Highness?_

"Don't call me that," says Nico.

_What would you have me call you?_

"Not that."

_Very well, sir._

"Now you sound like Jeeves," he groans and sits down. The others follow suit, blinking at him beseechingly. He glowers at Ayra. "You," he folds his arms stonily, "are you going to have another crisis of morality and try to kill me, or erase my memory, or any more of that crap?"

"…No."

_If she does I shall stop her, sir._

"Okay then." He crosses his legs, preparing himself for a long conversation. "Now explain exactly what you mean by 'serving me', wolfy boy."

_I would rather not to be addressed as 'wolfy boy', sir._

"Too bad, wolfy boy. Talk."

_My sole purpose is to aid you and the Norseling in the revolution. Once Hades is freed from Olympian reign the Ghost King will begin a new age of glorious and righteous judgement over the Damned and the Blessed. Then I will leave this world and descend into the eleven rivers as the true balance of chthonic power is restored…_ he gives a wolfish smile. _Sir._

"You sent me the dream?" asks Nico.

_I did, sir._

"That's one answer, I suppose," he sighs.

Ayra raises her hand. "Can I say something?" her voice is small. He nods, and she turns to the horse-sized monster sitting next to him. "Aren't you supposed to be tied up on the island of Lyngvi?"

_I escaped._

"You know wolfy boy?"

"He's _Fenrir_," she seems shocked at Nico's blatant lack of Norse mythological knowledge. "You know, devourer of Tyr's hand? Loki and Angrboda's child?" she shifts uncomfortably. "My half-brother?"

The son of Hades is startled. "Half-brother?"

_I was not aware that she was the traitor's daughter,_ grumbles the beast in question. _This could cast some doubts as to her loyalty._

"So me attempting to kill the Ghost King is fine," she says, "but having Loki as a father suddenly makes me suspicious?"

_Yes._

She huffs. "Hypocrite."

The sun is down and the moon is a tiny grey sliver scratched into the sky, the stars obscured by clouds. They make an incongruous group, a slight, strange looking teenage girl with skinned knees and grey eyes, a giant wolf with a white pelt and teeth the size of hands, and Nico finally, pale-skinned, dark haired and pensive, commanding and introverted at the same time, radiating some underworld-related quality that puts the others on edge. The leader of their ragtag group, it seems.

He's not used to commanding. "I need to see your people, Ayra," he declares, finally. "How do we get there?"

"Well, it's not something I can just _do_, I have to ask them first, of course, and then it's a very complex balance of runes–"

"How long?"

"… Three days."

He shakes his head. "How long without asking them?"

"An hour."

"Do it."

"But–"

"Do it."

Ayra groans and gets up, moving a little way away from the others. She takes a stick and begins drawing a circle in the dirt, large enough to fit two people inside of it.

Her sudden placidness seems suspicious to Nico, but then he remembers her state in the aftermath of the battle and the fear in her eyes when she looks at the Fen-dweller. He would be placid, too.

_I feel you should take further precautions when you meet the Norse, sir. Bring more soldiers. The gods are not entirely trustworthy._

"I'll have you, won't I, wolfy boy? And Ayra?"

"Wait, what?" Ayra pauses in the middle of her task. "You're bringing Fenrir along?"

"You think I would let you cast runes I know nothing about without insurance?"

"Fine then," she snorts to herself. "That's a great idea. Bring the monstrous child of a giant along. It's not like he's ever pissed any of the gods off by eating one of their hands."

She erases the circle with the palm of her hand and draws it bigger, expansive enough to encompass all three of them.

"It's going to take a little longer," she informs them.

Nico finds it fascinating to see her work. It soon becomes obvious to him that her talent in rune casting is in the construction of things, not the heat of the battle. She begins with a foundation of runes that look like Xs, laying each one carefully onto the ground in the exact right position, the glimmering filaments floating gently from her fingers and onto the earth.

Fenrir stands up, eyeing the runes unenthusiastically. _I will return, _he says to Nico. _I dislike these chaos spells, and I must catch something to eat._

The son of Hades gives his consent. The wolf melts into the forest.

He doesn't feel right interrupting Ayra in a period of such intense concentration. She holds each little bright letter between her fingers like they're made of glass. Instead he is happy to watch her from a few metres away, leaning against a tree, the night providing the perfect light to see her and the surrounding grass lit up by the lattice-like structure that looks as if stars are growing steadily around her.

He can't help it. There's something soporific about the calm blanket of night and the soft shuffling of her feet. He drifts to sleep.

He is woken by a hand on his shoulder. "Hey," she says. "It's finished."

Indeed, it is; a large circle with a great framework of runes around it, taller than him. Fenrir is already inside, pacing the limited space. He's obviously averse to the cage-like structure.

"You can just walk through it," Ayra does so, the wall shuddering, but not falling, as she passes into the circle. "See?"

Nico passes through the web of runes. It feels odd, ticklish and slightly painful at the same time. It certainly erases any last vestiges of slumber from his mind.

Once they are all in the circle, she walks up to a small hole in one section of the shimmering barrier. "It's missing a rune," she explains. "Once I place it we leave."

"Go ahead."

"Alright," she pauses. "One last thing; this might feel a little… strange."

She pushes _Raidō_, traveller, into the space.

The world dissolves around them.

All is colour and sound. Light drips like a Salvador Dali painting, leaving shifting shadows in its place. His head spins.

He can feel something clinging to him; it's Ayra, her hands balled in his shirt. He realises she's not having a better time of it than he is.

Each breath resonates hyper-loudly. The universe is shuddering with him and this girl and for one second it's just them and a technicoloured blur of noise. He sees what could be water, a tree, a sky crowded with galaxies unknown, but in the end it's just them spinning in sync; an oddly personal moment, like they've communicated something in her frightened, reliant posture and his protective stance.

They thud onto ground and it's gone, but despite the solidity under his back that should be grounding him he's falling, he's falling– the feeling passes. He takes a second to keep his eyes closed and scratch the dirt with his fingernails.

"Nico?" she mutters in his ear. "Are you–"

"I'm fine," he raises himself to a sitting position, rests his forehead on his knees, eyes closed. "Give me a minute."

Finally he looks up. It is day here. A vast field spreads in front of him, an expanse of tall grass and teeming birds. A pine forest rings the meadow, seeming impenetrable.

In the distance a huge, modern house towers above them, made of slate-grey stone with numerous windows and a rooftop garden covered in shady birch trees.

"We're in Asgard," Ayra tells him. She points to the house. "And that is Valhalla."

They stand together. Fenrir, standing next to them, gazes at the building. _The last time I was here, the Hall of the Slain had a straw roof_, he comments, tone tinted with nostalgia. _How things change._

"Hall of the slain?" asks Nico, reaching out to scratch the wolf behind the ears in the same way he has done so many times with the hellhounds of his father's domain. The beast freezes for a second then relaxes, resignedly.

"It used to be where the noblest warriors would go in their afterlives. No longer, of course."

There's something about the air in this place that crackles with power. The son of Hades is astonished to find that he feels his full strength completely returned to him after such an arduous trip. He offers his arm to Ayra and rests his opposite hand on Fenrir's neck.

"Oh, no, we can't shadow travel there yet," she says. "We have to visit Heimdall."

* * *

As they walk Ayra explains that the journey through the world of melting colours was, in fact, them crossing Bifröst, the burning rainbow bridge connecting the human world to Asgard, a link findable only by rune casters.

Heimdall, the hawk-eyed, watches over this pass, and it is through him that one can reach Valhalla.

His abode, a small cottage puny in comparison to the soaring glass edifice of the Hall of the Fallen, is ironically named Himinbjörg, or 'heaven's castle'. A horse is tied outside, pure white with a shining mane and dark, intelligent eyes.

"Hey, Gulltoppr," she laughs nervously at the mare as they approach. The animal snorts and then snaps at her with tombstone-like teeth. She shrieks and jumps back.

"A warning," she says to Nico, skirting around Gulltoppr. "This man _really_ hates me. Anything to do with Loki, really. He's not going to be accommodating."

The door swings open before they can knock.

Heimdall's skin is incredibly pale, nearly white, and his hair is a cherubic mass of blond curls, the same colour of the faint stubble darkening his chin. His irises are that colourless shade that is grey, green and brown all at once; bird's eyes, too inhuman to appear natural. Ayra knows that, if she could see them, his teeth would glint in the light; they are made of gold for some reason she's never been told. She notices the flash of recognition in the face of the boy beside her and she recalls his previous dream.

"Come in," his tone is harsh. "But not the Fen-dweller. That can wait outside."

Nico nods and Fenrir howls in protest. _Sir, I cannot leave you–_

"You know you have no right to be here, _óvættr_. Wait outside or incite my wrath."

"It's no trouble," says Nico. "Stay here, wolfy-boy."

Heimdall glares at Ayra. "And _you_," he spits. "One false word in my hall and I'll have your head."

She peeks nervously to the son of Hades, but he's wearing that awful, unreadable expression again.

She wants time to think about what's happened. Right now the thoughts are swirling around in her brain, ungraspable. She can't do anything but follow him blindly in this frame of mind. And that's what she does, across Himinbjörg's threshold and into a warm, wooden parlour with sunlight streaming through stained-glass windows depicting scenes of picturesque mountains and setting suns.

She's actually never been here before; it was always an unspoken rule between her and her father, growing up in these plains, to stay as far away from Hawk-eye as possible. Loki couldn't mention the God without inserting a few swearwords. They weren't on the best of terms.

Growing up here she lived off the books and the little somehow-working TV the Gods had given her, anyway. She had no time for chasing mysterious guardians watching the Rainbow Bridge.

They sit in uncomfortable wooden chairs by a small table carved with a hunting tableau. He pours them both portions of an amber liquid and turns away to put the decanter back.

"Aesir Mead," she whispers to Nico, who is staring at his drinking-horn curiously. "A formality for visitors. Don't drink it unless you can handle 58% alcohol content."

He pushes it away from him.

Heimdall returns and takes his place. His eyes follow every little movement the two demigods make, every nervous twitch and every sidelong glance.

"The prophecy," he says to the son of Hades. "You acknowledge it?"

"I do."

"You plan to join us in the war?"

"I plan to end the war before it begins," he replies. "Even if that involves allying with you and forcing the Olympians' hand."

"The Olympians," Heimdall muses. "You no longer consider yourself one of them." He stares at Ayra. "And you, child of Loki? Where do your loyalties lie?" He leans onto the table. "If the decision were between your father and the rest of the Norse, who would you choose?"

She quashes the anger welling up inside her, despite her usual difficulty in keeping her temper in check. "My father, if I had to. But it will not come to that."

"Really?" the God smirks and gestures to Nico. "Are you sure you do not have ties elsewhere?"

He laughs. "Oh, she's sure."

"Answers do not come without questions, Nico di Angelo." Hawk-eye responds, sullen. "You cannot learn all you need to know by observing, as much as you wish it so."

He begins to answer but is cut off by a snarl outside.

Heimdall rises fluidly from his seat and opens the door, a gust of air blowing into the room. Nico and Ayra follow him.

Fenrir stands, hackles raised, bristling at a man leaning casually against the wall of the cottage.

"Fenny, Fenny," he remarks. "I thought we were past this?"

_I will never forget your betrayal._

The man winces. "Ouch." He notices them. "Oh, hello!"

Ayra grins at him. "It's been a while, stranger."

He returns the smile. "Indeed." Then he turns to Nico. "You must be the Greeky. I'm the Colonel, but you can call me Loki."


	7. Mæla: Speak

**Hello, everyone, I am the exposition fairy! To apologise for the ridiculously late chapter GG has asked me to provide answers to quite a few of your questions! Hopefully this chapter will give you them! (As well as open up some lovely new ones!)**

**No, seriously though, I apologise for how long it took me to write this. I think it answers some pretty serious questions. Thanks for reviewing! (please do it again)!**

* * *

"I feel you deserve an explanation, so I'll give you one as best I can.

The actual creation of the world is so shrouded in mystery that even the Gods themselves are not entirely sure of how it happened. The Olympians have deemed to claim the corrupted, mortal story that spread through the Classical period as their own. The Vikings had their own tales of us coming into being, and they were also muddied with time.

What we do know is that the General, Odin, created the world as we know it with the help of Zeus. Back then, they were like brothers; but as they grew apart the Gods split into two factions, and lived separately; they kept a weary eye on each other, and outwardly acted as if the other group did not exist.

The Olympians were always stronger than us. That is why we lived in peace with them for thousands of years. Us Norse fought amongst ourselves. We were flighty, volatile. I even ended up tied to a rock for a millennia, after a little accident culminated in the death of a fellow god. We were no threat.  
So as the mortals grew greater in number Olympus was content in knowing that their position of power was secure.

The problem began with the Ragnarok prophecy. While I was trapped in the middle of the underworld for my crime, the Wise One foretold the end of all things; Armageddon, if you will. The prediction involved the Norse exclusively and concerned me breaking free of my binds, eventually killing myself and everyone else, leading the Last Great Battle.

Zeus caught wind of this, and became afraid. He was used to the idolatry, used to the presence he held in history. The events of Ragnarok were not to his liking, his and his follower's destructions were not to his liking. He had to stamp out the proponents of the prophecy. He had to stamp out the Norse.

For centuries we fought, far away from the humans. Many of our kind died. Our army was made up of frost giants, dwarves; strong but unruly.

Unfortunately the opposition had one advantage; demigods. They fought in their hundreds for their parents. They destroyed us. Norse genes are radically different to mortal ones. The chances of producing a child are minute. Over the course of our entire existence we have only had nine children. None were born during the war.

In desperation, the General released me. It was a gamble; working on a technicality; I did not break free, I was set free– but it paid off. Ragnarok did not come. With me as a strategist we began to break ground.

It was not enough. We lost, badly. Many gods faded away. Defeated, we awaited judgement.

I was not bound anymore. I could not set off the events of the prophecy. More damaged than they were willing to admit, the Olympians were lenient. Stay away from the mortals, they told us. Have children with them, and they will be killed. Enclose yourself in Asgard, and we will be merciful.

Ostensibly we did what they asked. Sometimes we would visit the mortal world. Wives had been lost, husbands had been lost. We became lonely and started to make mortal friends, lovers. If we were found out the respective human would be killed.

In the early seventeenth century Thor had a drunken night in a french brothel. Nine months later, against all odds, Madeline was born. She was our first child after the war, our sixth child overall. She lived twelve years before the Olympians realised. She was drowned by Poseidon while she was looking for seashells.

In the late 1800s Freyja was picked up as a muse by a struggling British painter who had fallen desperately in love with her. Their child, a gorgeous baby girl named Adelaide, with hair the colour of spun copper and huge blue eyes, disappeared from her cot the day after she was born.

Then there was Eric. His mother was a stout, friendly looking woman who'd already had two children with her husband. Heimdall refuses to talk about what happened between them, but when her youngest child was born in 1904 he was the spitting image of Hawk-Eye, with gold blond hair and an uncanny ability to see and hear things others couldn't. In 1921, at the age of seventeen, he received a visit from another demigod, a child of Zeus. There was a great lightning storm that night, and in the morning Eric was gone.

The conditions of our surrender claimed we would receive eternal punishment for infractions, and to some it would seem that we did not receive it. But we did. We did."

They are in Valhalla. The field outside of the Hall of the Slain is in darkness, cicadas chirping in a steady hum as they listen. The unfamiliar gods around Nico look uncomfortable with the story, and Ayra is sitting next to him, seeming oddly impassive. Loki takes a steadying breath.

His words have put the son of Hades into a strange stupor. All this, and none of us knew, he thinks. He thinks of himself walking through the meadow, reaching the imposing stone and glass building; sitting at the conference table with a host of unknown faces around him, and then hearing this. All the while expecting the truth to be easier to accept– if this is the truth, after all.

Loki once again begins to speak.

"Sixteen years ago, I met Lise," he says, shakily. "She was living in the middle of Copenhagen. After Eric we'd made a pact. No more fraternising with the mortals. No more heartbreak.

But there was a stray Lindworm on the loose. Lindworms are endangered, you know. I had to bring it back to Asgard. And it had burrowed inside the walls of her apartment.

I forced her to help me catch it, I burnt a hole in her wall, I probably scarred her for life– and you know what? After it was finished, she asked me out for coffee. Coffee! Can you imagine? And I– I– I said yes..."

There is something shining in Loki's eyes when he says this. It's the sort of blind admiration that reminds Nico of how he thought of Bianca. An unquestionable affection.

"After that, it was inevitable, really. She was remarkable. I'd never met anyone like her, and I never will. Then she told me she was pregnant."

He sighs. "I was so afraid. She didn't understand the danger. She told me she'd never been happier. I took her to Asgard, I tried to keep her safe. I tried to give her everything she wanted, but all she wanted was the mortal world. Just wait until you have the baby, I told her. Then I'll take you there."

There is a long pause, then he begins once more. "The Olympians knew. They knew all along. They saw us together. They wanted to wait until the child was born, to make a point.

On July 8th, after hours of labour, Ayra came into the world. Minutes later Heimdall saw them coming.

We would have fought, but there was no point, especially when we had a woman who had just given birth weighing us down. We were vastly outnumbered. All we could do was run.

I told Lise this and she shook her head.

The Norse are many things, but we are not doctors. We know little of human biology. Another baby, she told me. Twins. At that moment, it was a foreign word to me. She had suspected, but now she knew. Another baby was coming. She couldn't run at all.

I looked down at Ayra wailing in my arms. I looked at Lise, my Lise, lying on the floor.

I passed my child to Freyr. Run, I told him. Run, I told the others. And they did. I think they knew what was coming.

Perhaps I thought I could talk my way out of it. That I could negotiate with the Olympians. Others fight with weapons. I fight with words.

My words were no good that time. They reached us as I first held my newborn son in my arms. His name is Soren, she said as she passed him to me. Then she stood up to greet them."

The world stops for a second.

"They died," Loki says, flatly. "Hades reaped their souls before my very eyes. I could see that spark that she had fade from her gaze as she looked at me. I felt my son go limp as I clutched him. The Olympians didn't say anything. They looked at me with a grotesque sort of pity and walked away. The only thing that was left for me to live for was my daughter waiting in Valhalla. Even so, a part of me was gone. I will never get it back."

It's clear he can't continue. Nico shudders. Outside the cicadas chirp on, unaffected.

"He saved my life," says Ayra, suddenly. "Soren. They didn't know there was more than one child. How could there be? They never looked for another. They went gladly home with the knowledge of a job well done."

She scowls. "So I'm doing this for him. Project Aska. Send me into the Greek camp when the time was right, I told the General. Let me gather intelligence. Let me be the catalyst for a war. Us or them."

She turns to Nico. "And now there is you,"

Every person at the table turns to look at him.

The General drums his fingers on the armrest of his chair. "It seems our fate rests in your hands."

* * *

Meanwhile Fenrir paces outside.

_Chirp chirp?_ cries a cricket near him. _Chirp chirp chirp? Chirp chirp chirp chirp chirp–_

He crushes it with his foot.

"Don't be so cruel," comes a voice behind him. He spins around to face a black-cloaked figure.

The person bends down and picks up the crushed insect. One leg is still waving feebly. They mutter something and its body reinflates. It hops out of their hand and makes a beeline for the undergrowth.

_Nice parlour trick_, rumbles the wolf. _I thought you avoided these parts._

"I used to," replies Hel. "It's been a little more exciting recently. Found your master, have you, brother?"

_Master only until Hades is overthrown_.

"Indeed. If you ask me, that boy isn't worth the trouble. They've told him everything," she hisses, gesturing toward the Hall, as if the information were a great secret that Fenrir was privileged to be receiving. "They've grown stupid in their old age. And now they want to give him Hades! It's my kingdom, you know. Mine!"

_You lost your part of the underworld in the war_.

"Perhaps. But if it is regained, why will we give it to him? I have half a mind to get it back myself."

_Do what you wish, sister_, he says, lying down on the grass and killing an unsuspecting ladybird in the process. _We are both children of Loki. Deceit is in our nature. If you decide to rebel once my time is over it is no concern of mine._

"Why are you so eager to die?"

_At first when I was trapped on Lyngvi I dreamt of freedom. After long enough I realised that the only true freedom is in the ending of things_. The wolf exhales slowly, lowering his enormous head onto his paws. _Soon I will have no greater purpose than to float through Dream._

She gazes blankly at him.

_It is ironic that one who knows so much of death cannot see the beauty of it, he muses. You have never had no option but to retreat to your own thoughts. It has changed me, as it has changed Loki. Someday you will understand._

Hel huffs, folding her arms. "You're so patronising sometimes."

_Oh?_

"Yes. And anyway, I'm sick and tired of all this fate and dream shit. It's war, plain and simple. It's people dying and murdering and everything else in between. I don't get why we want to pretend otherwise."

_It is pitiful, the way we live our lives in endless–_

Hel flicks a heavy rune at Fenrir's head. It burns a patch of fur off. He snarls at her.

"I'm sorry," she shrugs. "You were getting all existential again. It's bloody annoying."

* * *

Off the coast of Dubrovnik, Croatia, an amateur fisherman sits bored in his boat. _Nothing's biting,_ he thinks. _What an utter waste of time._

A larger-than-average wave hits the hull. Startled, he clutches the side to steady himself. He begins to reel in his line.

It's caught on something.

Cursing to himself, he tugs at it again. It comes free with a crack. He thinks nothing of it.

When the line pulls out of the water, he sees that it is attached to the end of an aeroplane wing. Shocked, he drops his rod into the ocean.

At least, to him, it is an aeroplane wing. To one with celestial blood, it is something else entirely.

A scale. An enormous, green scale covered with seaweed and mud.

The scale of a sea serpent.


	8. Andi: Spirit

**So, I hope you're happy... The second update in two days, and it's the longest chapter yet! I really like this one, although perhaps it's a little too speech heavy. Thank you for the reviews!**

**Also, I recently discovered that Aska is recommended on the Percy Jackson tropes page. Thanks, whoever you are!**

**AND (sorry to lengthen this mammoth author's note even further) I've put a poll up on my profile page asking what you'd like to see more of in this story. Please do vote if you have the time.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

The steady gazes of the Norse become too much for Nico.

"I need to think," he says, standing up. He's out of the room before anyone can stop him.

The stone walls and clean lines of the building do more to unsettle him, so his first priority becomes to get out of it. After negotiating many corridors and what appear to be conference rooms, he catches sight of an enormous glass door.

Nico charges outside into the cool night air just in time to see Fenrir lope into the woods. _There goes my chance for conversation_, he thinks.

He sits down in the long grass. One strand trails across his face, and the light touch tickles enough to make him smile.

A grasshopper crosses his path. A bee hovers around some nearby flowers. The whole scene is wonderfully idyllic.

He remembers that it was day when they arrived here. How long has he been listening to Loki? The whole story hasn't sunk in yet. He can't be sure what is true and what isn't. He knows they'll say anything for him to join them.

The story of poor Lise and Soren– he's sure that's real. Even the trickster can't fake such emotion, can he?

He lies down, causing a stronger tickling sensation and actually provoking a chuckle. _I'm going mad, being able to laugh at a time like this_. He pulls a stalk out of the ground and runs it through his fingers. _Or maybe I was already mad to begin with._

* * *

"Well," says Freyja huffily, "that was pointless."

Idun, never being one to act well under duress and possessing an extremely sensitive disposition in general, begins to cry.

"That was so sad," she sniffs. "poor, poor Lise."

"She had very nice hair," remarks Sif.

Loki curses, gets up, and leaves.

"What did I say?"

"I need... Tissues," Ayra's voice is undeniably shaky. She moves to follow her father.

"Can you bring some for Idun?" calls Tyr after her, but she is already gone. He groans and pats the weeping goddess next to him awkwardly on the back with his good hand.

"Don't bother trying to comfort her," Sif inspects her nails. "She'll just start crying again a few minutes later. She cried when she found out they put animal bone marrow in gumdrops. We don't even eat gumdrops."

"It was always a possibility to eat gumdrops!" she cries. "But for me, no longer! No animal should die for confectionary!"

"I, for one," volunteers Freyr, "love gumdrops. The one time I tried them I did, at least."

This makes Idun cry harder. Freyja hits her twin on the back of the head. "You're not helping."

"Hush," commands Odin, and silence falls instantly. "Major, fetch the Wise One."

"What? That's Loki's job."

"Go."

"Alright, fine," Freyr rises from his chair. Seeing the expression on his leader's face he hastens to add, "I mean, yes, General."

* * *

Ayra doesn't really know where she's going.

For now she wanders around the halls and stares into the empty, familiar spaces. Although the conference rooms are supposed to be used for strategising, they're a favourite haunt of many of the Gods taking residence in Valhalla. As she passes one with an open door she spares it a line of thought.

_I always had breakfast in here. No, wait, have. I have breakfast_.

She reaches the front door and briefly ponders going outside, then realises that someone has beaten her to it. Nico is lying a few meters away from the steps, using his folded up jacket as a pillow.

Before she can stop herself she opens the door and walks into the night. He makes no indication of hearing her but as she approaches him he speaks.

"There aren't any stars. I keep looking for them but the sky is empty. And no moon."

She sits tentatively beside him and plays with the dry dirt in front of her. "My first day and camp Half-Blood was the first time I saw either,' she confesses.

He makes a little confirmatory sound as if to indicate that he has heard this remark and understands all that it implies. "I'm sorry about your brother and your mom," he adds, after a few minutes of quiet.

Ayra shrugs. "I wanted it to be your fault. That's why I... You know. I needed someone to blame. I never knew either of them, but it's always been an expectation that I should constantly grieve. I thought if I got revenge somehow that would go away. I even forced my father to teach me English and a little Latin from a very early age because I thought I knew someday I would need it."

"You planned ahead. I never do that. When my sister died–"

They both freeze as they realise he's revealed something unintentionally. The sentence hangs awkwardly in the air between them, daring them to speak.

"Her name was Bianca," he says eventually. "I was young when it happened. Angry. I wanted someone to blame, and I found them."

"Who?"

"Percy."

"_Percy_?"

"Yes, Percy," he smiles softly. "I got over it after some serious rethinking, though. I still wish I didn't used to hate him so much for something he had no control over. I think he always believed me a little when I told him it was his fault. I think he still believes that. No, I'm sure of it."

"Do you..." she finds it hard to phrase her question. "Does it still..."

"Hurt?" He considers this for a while. "As time goes by my memory fades of her, and I become more numb to the pain. But forgetting her brings a new pain, and maybe that's worse. It's stupid, but I feel like as long as I can remember she's still here with me, at least partially."

"Oh," says Ayra. He looks at her expectantly. "What?"

"Nothing, it's just–" he sound amused. "You're supposed to say it's not stupid."

"Why?"

"Why? Just to be nice, I guess."

"But if you yourself said it was stupid, and I contradicted that, wouldn't I just be telling you that you were wrong about your own emotions? Isn't that rude?"

"Well, no... But..." Nico shakes his head. "You've confused me now. You act as if you've learnt your social queues from badly written 1960s advice columns."

"Now _that_ was rude," she says. "But, unfortunately, true. I grew up with books, tv, and the Internet being the only things telling me about other people."

"Hey, I spent a lot of my childhood in a magical casino."

"Sounds like fun."

"It was, actually."

More comfortable with the atmosphere now, Ayra lies down too. "Everything seems so rushed," she explains. "I'm not used to change, and I'm flighty. It means my attitude to this whole thing ranges from psychopathic and murderous to afraid of my own shadow. I really am sorry for trying to kill you. I didn't mean it. I was having a bad day."

"It happens to the best of us."

Ayra looks at him curiously, turning her head to the side. "I thought you were supposed to hold grudges. How come you're so forgiving?"

"I wasn't really angry in the first place, just confused."

"Confused seems to be word of the day for you."

"It always is."

Feeling movement beside him Nico turns to see Fenrir has somehow returned without either of them noticing. The wolf curls itself up on the floor with a huff and begins chewing on an enormous bone of some sort.

She looks nervously at the newcomer and shifts a little."I have a favour to ask you."

"What, to Fenrir or to me?"

"You!" she squeaks, as the Fen-Dweller rolls his huge head towards her, his muzzle still cackled in the blood of whatever he was hunting. "You."

"Go ahead."

"The others that were killed after the war," she says. "Matilda, Adelaide, Eric... Soren, my mother. We don't know what the Olympians did with their souls. They could be in Tartarus or they could have been reborn, but if you have a way of finding out could you–"

"They're in Asphodel,"

"What?" her eyes widen. "How do you know?"

"I just... Do." he sits up way too fast and has to fight off a moment of dizziness before continuing. "Don't you see, Ayra, it fits!"

Ayra pulls herself up as well. "It does?"

"Yes! They're the Unheard! They have not been judged!" he turns to the wolf beside him, the one who sent him his previous dream. "Aren't they?"

_I see many things, and I show them to those who need them. Do not expect me to know their meaning._

"I'm sure they are," declares Nico. "They're the Unheard."

"But does that mean that you only have the allegiance of five souls, instead of the thousands in the field? Is that a bad thing?"

"They're demigods, right? They've got to be powerful."

"Well, yes, except for the fact that two of them are under a week old, and one of them is a mortal."

"The other two, then. Eric and Madeline. Eric is the son of Heimdall, and Madeline is the daughter of Thor. That's got to count for something."

"Maybe." Ayra is unsure.

Nico thinks for a moment and stands up. She soon follows. "We need to talk to one of them and ask them about all... This."

"But they're dead!"

"Not a problem."

"Not a–" She says incredulously. "We're standing in front of Valhalla! The General will kill us when he finds out we're raising souls from Hades."

He shakes his head. "He won't. They're too busy in there." he gives her a searching look. "Are you scared?"

"Scared? Of ghosts?" she laughs nervously. "No..."

"Then there's no problem." he inspects the ground in front of him. "We're going to need some food."

* * *

Nico has honed his skills considerably over the past few years. What once required a pit and the fending off of dozens of unwanted souls now needed nothing more than a patch of bare dirt and a bowl of–

"What is that?" he asks. The concoction is the colour of old curry; yellow and disturbingly lumpy. A salty and rather unpleasant smell wafts from it.

Ayra looks down to her offering. "Pickled herring," she explains. "We eat it here all the time."

"It looks disgusting."

"It is. That's why I'm fine with you getting rid of it."

The bowl is placed a meter away from Nico. He wrinkles his nose. "So," he says, "who are we summoning, then?"

"Um... Eric, I suppose. He's the oldest demigod."

"Sure? Your mother..."

"I'm sure."

"Okay then," he nudges the bowl slightly further away from him with his foot. "Describe him to me. Anything you know about him."

"His last name was Hamilton, I think," she bites her lip. "He was born in London, he died there 1921. He was seventeen. Father says he looked like a younger version of Heimdall."

It's enough. He begins chanting in Ancient Greek. The air is suddenly infused with something dark and primal. The wind howls around them, and Ayra shivers from the sudden chill.

An acrid mist materialises and sweeps around the bowl. Nico can feel unwanted spirits trying to get to it, and he pushes them away with his mind, trying to find someone who matches Ayra's description.

There. He can feel it's who they're looking for. He tugs the spirit into Asgard, simultaneously closing off his connection to Hades.

A shadow appears in front of them and walks towards the food. One herring, clumps of yellow still clinging to it, is lifted and promptly disappears.

The apparition solidifies. Nico spares a glance to the girl next to him. She's as white as a sheet.

The boy in front of them does look a lot like Heimdall. His eyes are the same colourless, multifaceted tone and his hair is that wheat-gold, albeit strait rather than curly. He's pale, too, although that may be because he's just been raised from the dead. He's wearing a waistcoat and a white shirt. He's also exceptionally handsome.

"That," Eric Hamilton says, "was foul. That was the most bloody awful thing I have ever eaten. If I see another herring again, dead or alive, I will mount its head on a plaque and carry it around the ocean as a warning to other herrings not to be pickled."

Nico and Ayra don't really know what to say. They gawp at him.

"In fact," he continues, "I would go as far as to say that was the most bloody awful thing that has ever been near my mouth. And I have drunk the waters of the river Lethe. The waters that were absolutely disgusting and didn't even work, considering I still have my memory. I think Hades needs to give those waters a clean. They tasted like broken dreams. That herring, however. That herring tasted like the nightmares of those broken dreams as they were force-fed traumatic childhood memories with a pinch of unfulfilled aspirations."

"You're Eric Hamilton?" Nico asks.

"The one and only." he catches sight of Ayra. "Your friend doesn't look very well."

"I'm fine," she says, promptly sitting down.

"Well then," the spirit frowns. "Who are you?"

"I'm Nico di Angelo, son of Hades. And this is Ayra Sorensen, daughter of Loki."

"I am Eric, son of Heimdall, son of Wilfred Hamish Hamilton, son of Sophie Loretta Hamilton. I have also been dead for quite a few decades. Any reason I'm here now?"

"Well, we wanted to ask you about–"

"Wait a second!" Eric's eyes widen. "You're him!"

He blinks. "What?"

"You're the ghost king! So this must mean..." he grins. "Your dog got my message!"

_I_, growls Fenrir from his position by the steps, _am not a dog._

"You sent the dream?" Ayra says. Some colour has returned to her cheeks. "Can you clarify on what it means?"

"It was rather cryptic, wasn't it?" he sighs. "That message was one of my greater works. I see what others can't; it's ideal for that sort of thing. The basic meaning was this: those of Elysium will follow him, and those of Tartarus will follow him, and those of Asphodel will follow him. But he must be cautious because two others have claim to the throne."

"_But He shall know this; that two have come before Him, and one has lost, and one will lose. For someday there will come a time when he shall lose, too,_" Nico mutters. He looks sharply to Eric. "Will I lose?"

He gives a disconcerting smile. "We all lose someday."

"Two others," Ayra furrows her brow. "So that's Hades, and... Oh, Hel."

Nico turns to her. "What's wrong?"

"No, I mean _Hel_. She's the other one with a claim to Hades. She had half of it before the war. Nowadays she spends most of her time wandering around looking sullen."

"Daughter of Loki, son of Hades," muses Eric. "You're both being challenged by relatives, how ironic."

"Relatives?" Nico rolls his eyes. "Don't tell me, Hel is another one of Loki's children."

_She is my sister_, supplies Fenrir.

"I need to go." Eric slowly begins to fade. "If you see my father, tell him to avenge me and also that I am also very grateful for the fact that I am so bloody handsome, since it must have been him that gave me the wonderful cheekbones."

He is gone from view before they can reply.

"Is she dangerous? Hel, I mean?" Nico picks up the bowl and plops the contents in front of Fenrir, who sniffs it, does a movement with his shoulder blades that looks curiously similar to a shrug, and begins to eat it.

"She's angry." Ayra stands up. "How much of that anger will turn into action, I don't know."

* * *

The problem with incredibly huge things is where to put them. Of course, this is a problem that presents itself no matter what the incredibly huge thing is, so when Poseidon, many centuries ago, was faced with the problem of one incredibly huge and incredibly unwanted thing, he was forced to leave it where it was.

It's not like it was doing anything, anyway. It was asleep. It had been asleep for quite a while. And if, someday, it woke up, then he'd figure out something then.

Fortunately, for a very long time, it wasn't a problem. It slept through wars and titans and the earth itself rebelling. It didn't blink an eye, mainly because both eyes were closed.

But when the dead have something new to talk about, when the dead have stirrings of something other than despair inside of them, when something so pivotal as to move both of its siblings into action happens–

Well, then it might wake up and see what all of the fuss is about.


	9. Naðr: Serpent

**Another one! Next chapter, the action really starts.**

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* * *

As Nico and Ayra converse with Eric, Freyr sets Mímir down on the table. "I brought the Wise One," he says, grimacing at the wizened head. "I have to give Loki some credit, that thing does not make the easiest travelling companion."

"It's too warm in here!" it squeals. "And humid! My joints!"

"You don't have any joints," Tyr points out, trying to casually extricate himself from Idun, who is clinging to his good arm and sobbing gently. He is unsuccessful.

Odin, never one to procrastinate, looks the head in the eye. "Wise one," he intones, the others internally rolling their eyes at the well-known words, "We seek truth. What is it that you see?"

All of the gods shift imperceptibly towards Mímir. The air thickens with anticipation. It is absolutely silent.

"I see..." whispers the seer, his voice echoing and ethereal, "nothing."

"What?" the General asks, flummoxed. "You always see _something_."

"Yes, well," it snaps, "the last time I did that, I was bashed on the head by Mr Fist-Happy over there, wasn't I?"

Thor has the good grace to look guilty. "I promise I won't do it again," he says, with the manner of a chastised child.

"It doesn't matter. The harm's done," if it could turn its back on the god and fold its arms, it would. "Besides, I don't see anything important. Just a monologue about being hungry."

"Hungry?" Odin strokes one of his ravens on the head, usually an indication that he is thinking. "Interesting."

"No, not really," sniffs Sif.

"_I'm_ hungry," moans Njord, god of the sea.

This is the first thing he's said or done since he arrived in the room, and most of the others have forgotten he is there. The same can be said of Skadi, goddess of ice and mountains. The reason for this is rather unclear. Perhaps it is because the two have been glaring at each other for hours, daring the other to speak.

"Of _course_ all you care about is your stomach," Skadi says disdainfully. She says everything disdainfully.

"At least I have the ability to care, unlike some people."

"Oh, I care alright. I care about how long it is before you can get out of my sight–"

"Believe me, so do I!"

"Oh, really? Here I was thinking that you sat opposite me to be purposefully annoying! Oh wait, you did!"

"Ever since the divorce," Freyja hisses. "They're insufferable."

* * *

Have you ever had one of those mornings when you wake up and you're just _starving_?

You know; you roll out of bed, and the first thing you think about is food. Maybe you have a hankering for a full English breakfast, with some crispy bacon, scrambled eggs, sausages, and an enormous glass of orange juice (perhaps minus the stewed tomato).

Possibly you have a sweet tooth, and you daydream about a stack of pancakes drizzled in maple syrup, topped with blueberries and a perfectly formed wedge of butter, with some sweet tea and a slice of melon.

You could be the sort of person that immediately wants granola and greek yoghurt. That's fine, too.

Others enjoy a fuller morning meal. Fifty or so sperm whales and a dozen giant squid, a century old anchor for iron, washed down with a few hundred gallons of seawater.

Unfortunately those that dream of such breakfasts are often in a position where they cannot hope to consume them. This can be for a number of reasons. One of the most inescapable is if you are so big that you circle around the entire world's oceans and still need to bite your own tail. It's hard to put anything in your mouth if it's already full.

As you can imagine, being in this position is frustrating in the least. You can't move, you can't talk, and most of all, you can't eat. It's made even worse if you happen to be leaking poison from your fangs, conveniently killing everything edible near you. It's like cooking a meal over and over and never being able to consume it.

Well, sometimes you can talk. You can talk mentally, if you have the initiative. It's hard being the middle child. When you're angry, and you just want to _shout_, who do you shout to?

Why, your parents, of course.

* * *

Suddenly Loki is very hungry.

He stops what he's doing (sitting on a chair and staring at the wall) and walks straight to the kitchen. The hunger is strange, because it seems to be solely in the mind, not the stomach. Of course he doesn't think of this. He's too busy imagining the enormous open-face sandwich he's going to make himself.

_Rye bread and butter and pickled herring and raw onion and capers..._

He opens the fridge door, rummages around for a second, then closes it, horrified.

The pickled herring is gone.

Loki is torn between eating something else and going to find Ayra, who he is sure is behind the disappearance. She has, on numerous occasions, thrown it out because it 'stinks'. It is unacceptable behaviour and as a father he is obligated to–

_HUNGRY!_

Make sandwich first, teach valuable life lesson later.

He opens the fridge again. He takes out the raw mince meat and an egg. One steak tartare later, and he is still starving.

He feels... Odd. Like there is something else that he was having strong feelings about before food. Also like the steak tartare was a bad idea. He wants fish.

He wants pickled herring.

Ignoring a new compulsion to drink seawater, he marches out of the kitchen.

"Ayra!" he shouts as he walks. "Ayra, did you take my herring?" What is he supposed to say again? Oh, yes. "You're in big trouble, young lady!"

He stops in front of the glass door of the main entrance. He sees Ayra outside, talking to the Olympian boy. He also sees Fenrir eating something.

_No. No!_

"You gave it to the dog!" he cries as he exits the building. "You actually gave it to the bloody dog!"

"Um," says Ayra, "you sound strange."

"Of course I sound strange, you gave my herring to the bloody dog!"

"You're hissing," provides Nico, pausing in his attempt to calm Fenrir, who is greatly insulted at, once again, being called a dog.

Loki stops in his violent pacing. "I'm hissss– I'm hissss– oh. Oh."

Far away, in the depths of the ocean, a ravenous creature, its efforts to eat by proxy thwarted, lets go of its connection to him.

The god feels his mind relaxing and the faux-hunger slipping away.

"It seems," he says, his voice returned to normal, "that someone has woken up."

* * *

They rush into the conference room with Fenrir behind them, for the simple reason that none of them could have been bothered to tell him not to come. The wolf can barely squeeze into the space. Odin takes one look at him and explodes.

"Colonel!" he shouts, in English for Nico's benefit, the birds on his shoulders cawing in consternation. "Why has the fen-dweller been released?"

Ayra turns to Loki, astonished. "You didn't tell them?"

"I didn't know until this morning!"

"Let me sort this out," says Nico with surprising professionalism. He addresses the General. "Fenrir has pledged allegiance to me, you see. Once this is over he'll leave forever. He's not going to cause any trouble for us."

This placates him somewhat and the ravens calm down.

"I have bigger news, anyway." Loki says. "Jormungand is awake."

Everyone is still for a moment. Then they all erupt at once.

"Oh, Hel," moans Thor, slamming his head against the table.

"Everything bad that could possibly happen is happening!" cries Freyja.

Tyr just sits there, keeping a close eye on Fenrir. He can't help remembering how he lost his hand.

Mímir laughs.

"Silence!" roars Odin. They comply. "Now, we all know the implications of this–"

"Actually," says Nico, "I don't. Care to enlighten me?"

"Jormungand, or the Midgard serpent," Ayra replies, "is an enormous sea serpent that lives at the bottom of the ocean. He is the brother of Hel and Fenrir. He's been asleep for thousands of years. That he's woken up now; it's bad, very bad. Extremely bad."

"Why? I mean, how big can he be?"

_He is so big_, Fenrir says, _that he circles around the world and bites his own tail._

Nico's eyes widen.

"He communicated with me mentally," continues Loki. "Made me crave herring. I have no idea what other horrible things he'll do."

"If he lets go of his tail it will spell disaster," Mímir reminds them. "Ragnarok could come."

"Well," Nico sighs, "shit."

The others murmur their agreement.

"What's stopping him from letting go, anyway?"

"Binding runes," Loki explains. "Exceptionally powerful ones, put in place by yours truly."

"But how powerful?" asks Skadi. "Will they hold?"

"They'll hold," says Loki, with absolute conviction. "I'm the best here with runes, we all know that. They couldn't have been done better."

"All runes decay with time."

"They'll hold."

"But–"

"They'll hold."

"There's nothing we can do for now," says Odin. "It seems we have a more pressing matter. Son of Hades..."

"Yes?"

"Will you aid the Norse?"

"You have to understand, I don't want war," Nico answers. "But I won't pretend that things are right the way they are. I'll help you, but only to a point. I won't kill for you, and I don't want to overthrow Hades."

"You know there is a prophecy?"

"I do."

"Typical Olympian," mutters Loki. "Acting as if ignoring the inevitable will stop it from happening."

The General ignores this. "That is acceptable," he declares. "I can offer you accommodation for the rest of the night, as little of it left though there is. For now, the best course of action would be for both of you to return to the camp and collect as much intelligence as possible while we form a strategy. We will send you there tomorrow."

"What will we tell the people at the camp?" Ayra asks. "We'll have been gone for a day and a half."

"He took a trip to the underworld and you decided to tag along. You both spent the entire time getting on each other's nerves and would rather not talk about the experience, rather than to complain about the awful atmosphere." Loki tells this story with such dexterity that even she believes it for a second.

Fenrir is instructed to sleep outside, a prospect welcome to the wolf. As he leaves he gives Tyr's good hand a meaningful look. _Someday_. The god shudders.

Ayra touches Nico lightly on the shoulder. "I'll show you your room," she says quietly, as the others begin to argue in Old Norse.

The moment they get far away enough for the Gods' voices to be completely indistinct she stops. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For agreeing to help us. Without you... I think it was definite I would end up dead. And I know that's still a possibility, but a chance– a chance is better than nothing."

"If you do, I'll be sure to thank Loki for your cheekbones."

That makes her laugh. "Sleep well."

"You too."

The room is of an average size, but it is cramped because nearly all of the space is taken up by an enormous bed with piles of pillows and a large duvet. It looks wonderfully inviting and he hops into it with glee. He nearly forgets to take off his shoes, and once he does he falls fast asleep, still wearing his jeans and an orange camp Half-Blood t-shirt.

* * *

_A problem one may find with Hades is that it simply isn't big enough. That is, it's not running out of space; what is meant by this is that when you consider how large the earth is, it seems that there simply must be more space in the underworld._

_And there is. Half of the underworld is completely neglected. This half is called Hel, and once, centuries ago, it was the home of another Hel, the daughter of Loki and Angrboda._

_Hel, the place, was very similar to Hades, the place, but now it is a wasteland with very little in it except a beaten path and a crumbling castle that once housed the eponymous being. _

_If you walk away from the castle, and you walk continuously without stopping for exactly nine days, you will reach Niflheim. _

_Many are under the impression that Niflheim was destroyed along with Vanaheim, another world associated with the Norse. It was not. Instead, it was hidden, by a very resourceful and untrustworthy god who thought he might need an escape route someday. _

_Niflheim was never home to many; a few wolves, and some exiled frost giants. Now it is empty of life._

_It is cold, so very cold in Niflheim. There is no sun, just an endless white light with no discernible source that never fades. It snows constantly. There is ice and frost and little else._

_It seems an odd place to put an escape route. There's not much that could be more threatening, more inhospitable. What could possibly make one run away TO this?_

_What could possibly?_


	10. Fara: Travel

**Hey, you haven't read it,**

**And the joke's outdated,**

**But I wrote a chapter,**

**So review it maybe?**

* * *

When Loki created the new portal he confidently told Nico that the trip out would be far more comfortable than the previous one.

"Think of the way here being a climb up," he said. "The way back is a slide down. Much easier."

Nico should have guessed from the expression on Ayra's face that he was lying.

It would be cruel, however, to expect him to have known the extent of the lie.

As the last rune is placed in the glowing structure around him, her and Fenrir, he has time to think _this isn't so bad_ before his brain promptly melts into a puddle and falls out of his ear.

This isn't sliding down, this is being dragged down. He can feel his body contorting in strange ways as a rainbow of light and sound swirls languidly around him. It's as different and as similar to the other trip as it can be, both at the same time.

It's also worse. He tries to form a coherent thought and ends up with _harglfarglehpatzzzzuzzzz_. He wonders if this is the mythological equivalent of a bad acid trip, then realises he can't be wondering that because all he can think are nonsense words; and anyway, he can clearly see the last vestiges of his mind on the nonexistent floor next to him, groaning, curled into a ball.

_Oh wait, is that Ayra? Yes, it's Ayra. Never mind_.

Just when he might be getting used to it, something utterly impossible happens.

Out of the aether and into the portal steps Eric.

He looks around for a second and frowns. "Bloody Hel, must've taken a wrong turn," he mutters. He shoots an apologetic nod to Nico and promptly steps out again.

_What the–_

Slam. He hits the ground with approximately five billion times the force than he did on Asgard, rolls for a while then stands up and collapses again. His brain climbs into his ear and ekes out a pathway to his head, which is rather painful.

"Ow," he groans, "hrnnnnng."

He hasn't closed his eyes at all, so at least he can see that they have appeared to landed at the correct spot. Also that Fenrir is standing over him, looking completely unaffected by the journey.

Brain firmly in place, (although still making itself comfortable), he loops his arms around the wolf's neck and uses the support to stand up once more. The forest splits in three, but comes back together after he gives it a stern mental talking to.

He spots Ayra lying face down next to them. He pokes her on the back with more force than he means to apply. "Wake up," he says, rather unintelligibly. "Wake up."

"I can't," she replies, her voice muffled since it is directed at the dirt rather than to him. "I think I'm dead."

"Oh. I'm sorry for your loss," okay, so he's still not completely lucid. "I shall inform the decea– decea– deceased's family immediately."

"Tell them that I am very bloody handsome. No, wait..."

Unable to stand any longer but too stubborn to sit down, Nico opts instead for draping himself over Fenrir. "Comfy," he murmurs, even though it's not.

Ayra pulls herself to a sitting position. "Last time," she says, "I had to run because of the monsters. But we're good, because you have your badass sword."

"You shouldn't say badass, it sounds wrong. And anyway, I don't have my sword. It's in my cabin."

"Oh," she copies his position, lying on Fenrir's back stomach down, facing the opposite direction so neither of them can see the other. "That's a shame."

_Perhaps you two could find a different wolf to lie on, sir._

Nico pats him on the head. "Good boy."

"Hey, wait," Ayra slides down back onto the ground. "What will we do with him when we're at camp?"

_I will stay in the woods,_ Fenrir answers. _Perhaps you should begin to make your way back, sir._

"You're right," this time, as he stands, the forest does not split in three. The stern mental talking to must've worked. "Come on, Ayra'"

He helps her up. The Fen-dweller melts into the trees without a goodbye.

She stretches out her arms and yawns as if she has just woken up from a deep sleep. "So, are we shadow travelling there?"

"I think I need the walk."

"Fine with me."

They follow the vague trail that some enterprising demigod had created long ago; after five minutes they've both gained full lucidity.

"I feel like someone's been pounding my head with a mallet," he says to her.

"It's worse if you know how bad it's going to be," she rubs her temples. "That's why they tend to lie to first-timers."

"Worse than that?"

"Worse than that," she sighs. "You know what I miss most about living in Asgard?"

"What?"

"Not having to constantly wear orange."

That makes him laugh. "It's _so_ not your colour," he teases.

"Well excuse me, Sir Pale-Skin Brown-Hair Brown-Eyes. You can wear anything."

"Even yellow?"

"...Not yellow."

He sees the entrance to the camp in the distance. "I might–"

They freeze. Half-Blood Hill has been bordered by a huge mass demigods, all kitted out in full battle armour. They mill about and chat nervously to each other. Included in the crowd are Percy, Annabeth and Chiron, the latter who is vainly trying to form some order in the rankings.

"Chiron's a centaur?" says Ayra, taking a step forwards.

"Something's wrong," Nico puts his arm out to stop her from advancing further. "This isn't normal."

Percy barks a command and the noise comes to a gradual halt. He starts talking to the others; he's too far away for them to be able to fully interpret it.

"What is he saying?"

"Something about... A possibility of... Shit," his expression becomes one of shock. "He's talking about us."

"What?"

"We need to get closer."

They creep forwards as silently as possible. Percy's voice is more intelligible.

"There's a lot we don't know," the son of Poseidon says. "We negotiate before we fight. We have no idea what sort of powers Ayra has, and we don't know whether Nico is innocent or not. Don't rush into this blindly."

"Crap!" she hisses. "Why–"

Nico's face goes pale. "Eric. Hades must have been keeping tabs on the Norse souls and put two and two together when we summoned him."

"They know who I am."

"The _gods_ do," he sounds apologetic. "I have no idea what they've told the campers, though."

"Probably that we want to overthrow Hades for our own selfish reasons," she says, distressed. "You know what this means, right? They want us both dead. The gods are on a mission to kill us... We need to go back to Asgard. It's the first place they'll look, but we should to talk to the General. We have to warn him."

"Well, we could go somewhere hidden so you can lay the runes. But there's one problem."

"What's that?"

"My sword is in my cabin."

"Your sword," she replies, exasperated. "Just shadow travel there and back."

"But if I do that I won't have enough juice to take us to the place where you can make the portal. And there's no way we can walk there. The gods will get a lock on our position and we'll be killed by before we reach it."

"So leave your sword."

"But it's not just a sword! It strengthens my connection with Hades and allows me to raise undead soldiers. It could save our lives."

"Are you honestly suggesting," she says, "that we fend off all of the demigods at the entrance and probably dozens more inside, just to retrieve your sword from your cabin? Are you _insane_?"

He gives the army a considering look. "If we get closer I could probably shadow travel to the cabin and fight my way out of it. Then I would still probably be able to poof us away from here."

"_Fight_ your way out of it. Listen, you're powerful, but you can't win against so many attackers all at once. And anyway, if we get any closer they'll see us."

"You forget," he smiles. "We have the wolf."

It only takes a few minutes of whisper-shouting into the trees before Fenrir arrives. Then Nico explains his plan.

"I've given Wolfy-boy permission to bypass the camp defences, so we don't have worry about that," he says, when he is finished.

_It would not matter anyway. They are built to stop monsters of Olympian origin. It is nothing to me._

"Okay then. Ayra, remember, you have to be convincing. Everything will be ruined if you aren't. We can handle a few dozen demigods, not hundreds."

"My father is the best liar in the world," she replies. "I don't think I'll have any trouble."

* * *

Percy's speech is broken off by the gasps of his army. He turns around to see two figures break through the cover of the forest and stop around thirty meters away.

"Halt!" he cries, as some of the demigods begin to move forwards.

It is Nico and Ayra. Nico has a strange symbol drawn on his head with some kind of purple ink. His face is completely motionless, as if in a trance.

"Nico di Angelo and Ayra Sorensen!" calls Chiron. "Give yourself up now, and we don't need to fight!"

"Silly little Olympian!" she shouts back, voice thick with derision. "You think that puny army can stop me? I've come here to teach you a lesson!"

"How could you possibly defeat all of us?" asks Percy. "Come on, you don't need to do this!"

"You don't know of my power?" she laughs. "Let me give you a demonstration!"

They watch in horror as she turns to Nico. She raises her hand; in between her fingers glows a strange, silver light.

Before Percy can command the archers to shoot the light zooms out of her hand and hits the son of Hades on the temple.

On impact it flashes like fireworks, and the demigods have to shield their eyes from the glare. When it dies down Nico is gone.

"Move one inch," she warns, "and I'll do the same to all of you. I swear it on the river Styx."

* * *

Nico arrives in his cabin, wiping the berry juice off of his forehead. _Worked like a charm._ A simple matter of coordinating shadow travel with the harmless light rune and suddenly he is dead and Ayra is a dangerous threat.

He grabs his sword and shoves a couple of t-shirts, some toiletries and a pair of jeans into a backpack. Then he sits and waits.

Thirty seconds later he hears a howl outside.

Outside of the door are five winded, unconscious demigods and Fenrir. He hops on the enormous wolf's back. "Remember, no killing."

_I know, sir._

As they charge towards the exit the demigods instructed to watch the camp run away, terrified. A few braver ones attempt an attack and are immediately batted away by an enormous paw or a wall of black stone rising from the earth.

Honestly, the two are having the time of their lives. Nico whoops with laughter every time his ride jumps over an obstacle, and Fenrir is having just as much fun being in the thick of a semi-battle. He especially enjoys the shrieks of the Aphrodite kids when he sticks his head through their cabin window and snarls.

* * *

"Hear that?" cries Ayra, referring to the shrieks emanating from the camp. The Olympians in front of her look terrified. _They think their hands are tied. They think that if they move to help I'll destroy them all. _

She decides to chant for effect. "My sailor went to sea sea sea," she says in Old Norse, realising that none of them will be able to tell what she's talking about. The campers gasp. "To see what he could see see see. But all that he could see see see was the bottom of the big blue sea sea sea!"

"Please!" shouts Percy, "don't do this!"

"Crab cake!" she replies in Old Norse once more, trying very had not to laugh. "Trousers! I like shellfish, I do I do I do!"

"Whatever spell you're casting, just–"

"Silly Susie sells sarongs," it lost its alliterative appeal when it was in a different language. Never mind. "Silly Susie sings sad songs."

"Why–"

She sees a great white beast with a rider charging up a hill behind them. "Oh, you Olympians," she says in English. "You were even easier to trick than I thought you'd be."

Percy has time to say "What?" before Fenrir leaps over him and the campers, his rider clinging desperately onto the wolf's neck.

The archers start firing but the Fen-dweller is too fast. He dodges the arrows with ease, and they reach Ayra and the cover of the forest within seconds. Nico pulls her up next to him. "How'd it go?" he asks, as the army, out of projectiles, begin to charge towards them.

"Well. I think Percy and I really clicked."

"Good for you."

Then they disappear.

* * *

They arrive on a pebble beach. The temperature is pleasant, hot with a cool breeze. The air smells like the sea.

"Where are we?" she asks, sitting up, disorientated by the shadow travel.

"A beach."

"Well, obviously,"

Fenrir throws himself in the sea happily, splashing her in the process. She scowls.

Nico shrugs. "When I first learnt to shadow travel, I stumbled across this place by accident. It's always deserted, and I assume it's not too far away, since I only just feel ready to collapse," he lies down. "Wake me up when you're ready."

Ayra rolls her eyes and sets to work.

Fenrir swims further out. He dives and snatches a crab as a snack. He climbs onto a far-out rock, shakes himself, then jumps in again.

Then, suddenly, _HUNGRY!_

_Hello, brother_, the wolf replies to Jormungand. _It has been many years since we last talked._

_I AM VERY HUNGRY!_

_I am aware._

_FOOD!_ the snake cries. _BRING ME A SAILOR! BRING ME A VIKING SEA CAPTAIN AND HIS CREW! BRING. ME. FOOD!_

_I am afraid I cannot._

_THEN BRING ME SOMEONE WHO CAN!_

_You are held by binding runes, brother. No one can feed you but the person who placed them._

_BRING HIM TO ME! BRING ME MY CAPTOR LAIDEN WITH FISH! I SHALL EAT HIM AND THE OFFERING HE CARRIES!_

_Your captor,_ growls Fenrir, _is a god, and our father. I cannot retrieve him for you. I grow weary of this._

He starts to swim back to shore.

_WAIT!_

He stops.

_WHAT OF OUR SISTER?_

_She wishes for her place in Hel, as she always does._

_TELL HER TO BRING ME SOMETHING TO EAT!_

_Goodbye, brother._

His paws touch the pebbles of the beach and he sees that the daughter of Loki has completed her portal and is shaking the King of Ghosts awake.

As the world melts around them Fenrir can't help feeling some compassion for his sibling. _Before I go, I'll bring you something to satiate your hunger. I swear it._

All thoughts of this nature leave his mind when they arrive. Asgard is the same as always; twittering birds, infuriating grasshoppers.

But in front of them, Valhalla has been burnt to the ground.


	11. Kaupa: Bargain

**Hello again! I'm really churning these out this week because I want to get as much possible done before school begins. The action is really starting now… **

**You know the drill; please read, review, answer my poll, and enjoy!**

* * *

The Hall of the Slain is a mere skeleton of what it once was. The stone is charred, the glass shattered and melted. The rooftop garden is gone, the last vestiges remaining the embers floating in the air around them.

The home that Ayra once knew is now lost forever.

She cries out, begins to run towards the ruin, but suddenly there are arms around her holding her back, a voice in her ear telling her to stop. She tears away from her captor in a sudden burst of energy and nearly falls down she's running so fast, but all she can hear is the pounding of her heart and her feet.

"Dad!" she cries, she sobs, even though she never calls him that anywhere but her mind. What was Valhalla looms above her. "Dad! Where are you? Dad!"

No reply. She hears someone shouting her name behind her, but she ignores them. She climbs the steps and through where the front door once was. She knows the structure is probably unstable but she can't help leaning against an empty window frame, sliding to the floor, tears streaming down her face.

Something flutters by her in the breeze and she grabs it before it leaves. Astonishingly, it's a page from a book that has survived the blaze; she recognises it instantly.

_The moon was shining sulkily,_

_Because she thought the sun_

_Had got no business to be there_

_After the day was done—_

_"It's very rude of him", she said,_

_"To come and spoil the fun!"_

It is _The Walrus and the Carpenter _from _Through the Looking-Glass, _Ayra's favourite poem as a child. She folds the page carefully and puts it in her pocket. It is comforting to feel it there, to know that something still remains.

A person crouches in front of her. "Come with me," he says, placing a hand on her arm.

She shakes her head. "No," she murmurs, "I have to find my dad."

"He's not here, Ayra. But maybe if we move back to the field, we can talk about where he is."

She shakes her head again and pats her pocket. She recites one of her favourite stanzas.

"_'O Oysters,' said the Carpenter,_

_'You've had a pleasant run!_

_Shall we be trotting home again?'_

_But answer came there none—_

_And this was scarcely odd, because_

_They'd eaten every one._"

"You're in shock," the person replies. Then he does a thoroughly astonishing thing; he picks her up, slings her over his shoulder, and walks out and away from the destroyed building.

She beats his back with her fists. "Let go! My dad's in there! I have to find my dad!"

"He's not! And you won't be any use to him if you keep acting like this!"

She's deposited on the ground without ceremony. A huge dog advances on them and lies in front of her. _Fenrir, _her mind reminds her. She looks to the person. _Nico._

"Nico," she whispers, and he sits beside her. "Nico, they're gone."

"I don't think they are. They're just... Hiding. I think they got out of here before the Olympians did this."

She looks up at him. "You– you do?"

He nods. She takes _The Walrus and the Carpenter _out and passes it to him. "I found this," she murmurs distractedly.

He takes it from her and unfolds it. "Hey, I know this poem. Lewis Carroll, right?" he frowns."Someone's drawn something on the corner."

She grabs it back and inspects the offending area of the paper. "Runes... the ones for I and R, or ice and journey."

Her eyes widen.

"I know where they are! They're in Niflheim!"

"...Where?"

"My father has an escape route," she stands up. "I was the only one that knew about it. Go to Hel, walk away from the castle continuously for nine days, and you reach Niflheim. It's a wasteland, and it's freezing, but they're gods; and they're safe. They're safe!"

"That's great!" exclaims Nico. "So... What do we do now?"

"I... Don't know," she deflates. "Do we go after them?"

"It guess we have to. Otherwise we're dead. But I'm not sure how we can get to Hel, and, as mortals, we can't survive nine continuous days without rest."

_If I may, sir,_ interjects Fenrir, _the Norse will not have reached Niflheim yet. There is another entrance. We can meet them there._

"Another entrance?" he asks. "Through where? Why would Loki choose such a hard route if there was another way?"

_Because, _the wolf says grimly, _the other entrance is in Svartálfaheim._

* * *

If you've ever been in a large market, you will know the annoyance of those shopkeepers who come up to you with their various wares and insist on you buying things for exorbitant prices, making more and more ludicrous claims about the virtues of the items and sometimes eventually forcing you to buy them just to get them to go away.

If you can imagine an entire nation of these shopkeepers, with the one difference being that the prices are more exorbitant and the items actually live up to their ludicrous claims (making it even harder to resist purchasing them), you can imagine Svartálfaheim.

The or dwarves are a race of extremely talented and extremely annoying creatures. Most of them are metal workers, and you could try to call them a Norse equivalent of the Cyclops, but you would be incorrect in doing so. With the Cyclops, the items are usually made with good intent. Dwarves, on the other hand, incur ridiculously high fees simply for the reason they find taking things away from others funny. This means that often what is demanded is not money, but something valuable to the other that they have no use for, like a hand, a leg, or a beloved family pet. They are brilliant at convincing people to part with these.

If there's one thing Loki can't stand, it's those who are similar to him, so he gives them a wide berth. There's also the problem of a slight altercation that happened a few thousand years ago with a pair of Dwarf brothers (ever wondered how he got those scars on his lips?). When faced with the decision of which entrance to Niflheim he should use, he picked the one in Hel.

Svartálfaheim is a small world, which is pretty much a large bazaar. Ayra's been there before with other gods like Sif and Freyja, who navigate the place with the sort of supreme buyer professionalism it takes years to perfect. The three basic rules of shopping there are these:

1. Only ever look at an item if you are sure you are going to buy it.

2. Only ever make a purchase using something you know from the beginning you are willing to trade. Write a list of these items before you leave to remind yourself of them.

3. Go to the toilet before you get there. They will charge you a finger for each minute you spend in theirs.

* * *

"When was the last time you went to the toilet?"

"This morning, why? I haven't eaten anything since then. I'm actually really hungry."

"If that's the case," says Ayra, "we'll leave now. As for food, we can pick up some at Svartálfaheim. What have you got on you?"

"My backpack, spare change of clothes, deodorant, toothbrush, toothpaste," Nico checks his pocket, "a couple of drachma–"

"Drachma? Good, we can use those to buy something to eat. Have you got anything else on you you'd be willing to part with?"

"No."

"Remember that. When we walk through this place, there are going to be a lot of people talking to you all at once. Ignore them, and for Vanaheim's sake, don't even look at anything they try to sell to you, okay?"

"... Okay..."

Entering the world of the Dwarves is easy from Asgard; it's located directly under a hill in the forest, and it's only a matter of using the correct runes to open the gate. Problems start when you try to get out of it.

Fenrir promises to lead them to the entrance of Niflheim. _I lived in the world of ice for centuries,_ he explains. _I often used the Svartálfaheim exit._

The hill itself is quite unimpressive. It has a line of runes carved into it on its base.

"It says you need to leave a payment here before you enter," she says, as she forms the suitable runes and slots them into place so that they correspond with the ones already there. "Not true, of course. The dwarves will do anything to get you to part with your possessions."

"Dwarves?"

"They look a little like short humans, which is why they happen to be called what to you is an offensive nickname," she admits. "Don't worry about being politically correct about it, though. They're an entirely different species. The last time someone tried to call them 'vertically challenged' he left without a nose."

"Do they speak English?"

"Most of them do a little, although Old Norse is the usual language. They'll see you're not one of us quickly and speak appropriately."

She places the last rune and steps back. The hill groans and a patch of earth at the base of it capsizes inwards, forming a doorway. A message glows above it, shifting into Ancient Greek when Nico looks at it.

_Welcome to Svartálfaheim, where everything you ever wanted is only a purchase away!_

"Sort of sinister," he murmurs to himself.

* * *

The first thing they register is noise. They are surrounded by a cacophony of sound; metal clanging, raised voices, sizzling from the food vendors and the distant rumble of the forges. It is hot down here, too; hot and dry. Oil lamps cast an orange glow over everything, and the warm tone of the place is accentuated by the various goods, made of a dark-gold metal (dwarfish copper, according to Ayra) and piled high in the hundreds of stalls, all of which are crammed next to each other and competing for customers.

The customers are other, strange creatures; there are wolves, not as big as Fenrir but menacing all the same; goblin-like people wearing no clothes with ears longer than their arms; and, perhaps most bizarrely, silver-skinned humanoids as tall as Nico's shoulder wearing business suits in various shades of green.

The owners of the stalls shout in a number of languages– the majority in Old Norse, but some in English and even Latin and Ancient Greek.

"Bowls! Enchanted bowls! Guaranteed to make your food taste five times better! Dragon dung would be appetising in one of these!"

"Copper bracelets, copper rings! A pretty woman such as yourself may want this Imperial Gold belt! Imported all the way from New Rome, on my honour I swear it! It is infused with the magic of Venus, it will make you irresistible to anyone you choose!"

"Wild boar! Wild boar kebabs, wild boar burgers!"

"There," Ayra says, dragging them towards the food stall.

The cook is like all other dwarves; bearded (even females have facial hair), about hip-height with large black eyes and tiny ears. She grins widely at them. Her teeth are fewer in number than a human's and about double the size. "Hungry, eh?" her words are in English, but they are hard to make out. Her voice is low and grating.

"How much can we get for two drachmas?"

"Two burgers and a kebab."

Ayra glances to Fenrir. "Four burgers and it's a deal."

"Done," the dwarf presses some patties on the grill. "Goat's cheese?"

"Please," she turns to Nico. "You?"

"No thanks."

The food is good. Fenrir eats two burgers in ten seconds flat and walks ahead of them as they walk slowly away.

The son of Hades stops suddenly, prompting the other two to do the same. "I want that," he says.

"What? Want what?"

He points to the stall opposite them. On the wall behind the shopkeeper hangs a large shield. It is forged out of dwarfish copper and is covered in intricate carvings of skeletons and wolves, as well as both runes and Greek lettering. He can't stop looking at it.

"That looks valuable," she warns. "Don't–"

Too late. Nico approaches the stall.

"Have your eye on this, do you?" the dwarf takes it down from the wall. "Well, it's a good eye. This shield is old, very old. It's a sign of the craftsmanship that it's still in such good condition. An ancestor of mine forged it in the days before the war. See how it is a blend of Olympian and Norse styles? You won't find another like this in a thousand years."

He reaches out and skims his fingers over one of the wolves. It looks a little like Fenrir.

"It's enchanted, too," continues the seller, "some say by Loki himself. No blade can scratch the surface; not one of any material, not even imperial gold or celestial bronze. See here?" he turns it around and points to a rune craved on the inside of it. "That's _Teiwaz, _or Tyr, the god of weaponry. And watch–"

The shopkeeper presses the rune. With a click, the shield retracts in on itself, becoming a small copper ring with _Teiwaz _still showing.

Ayra pushes herself in front of Nico. "Excuse us," she says politely.

She drags him away from the stall. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Is it real?" he asks.

"Oh, it's real alright. Dwarves don't lie about what they're selling. The problems come in with what they want in return," she scowls. "We should just walk away."

"You don't _understand,_" he hisses. "I need that shield."

She gives him a long, calculating look. "...Fine," she spits out eventually. "But of we walk away from there and you're missing a body part, don't blame me."

They return to the shopkeeper, Fenrir on their heels. "What do you want for it?" Ayra asks him bluntly.

He smiles. "I knew you two had excellent taste. Why, this shield–"

"Yes, yes, you've sold it. How much?"

"For people as discerning as you? An excellent deal," he nods as if pleased with his own kindness. "... I want the boy's shadow."

Nico blinks at this. "My _shadow? _Why would you need that?"

He shrugs. "I collect curiosities. And a part of _you_; with your wolf and your Olympian sword; is definitely a curiosity. What I ask for is a mere trifle in comparison to the wondrous object you wish to purchase!"

"Well, I mean, it's not like it's doing anything..."

"Don't," Ayra cuts in. "Don't do it. We can find another shield. Won't people think it's odd to see someone walking around without a shadow?"

_I agree, sir. We do not know the consequences of giving away something so ubiquitous–_

"It's my shadow," he replies, hotly, "I can do what I want with it."

"But–"

"It's a deal," he says to the dwarf. "How do I give it to you?"

"Why, a sun rune to sever it from your feet should suffice."

"Ayra?"

"This isn't good," she moans. "You should really reconsider."

He takes her by the shoulders and puts his face very close to hers. "Please?" he breathes.

She blinks in shock. "I..." she answers dazedly. "Okay."

"An excellent decision, and one you will not soon regret!" proclaims the seller as she forms _Sōwulō_ between her fingers. "Perhaps the lovely lady would like to take a gander at trying on some of these beautiful Asgardian pearl necklaces? The finest in Svartálfaheim, guaranteed!"

"No thank you," she says under her breath.

She aims the beam of runelight so that it cuts a straight line through the legs of Nico's shadow; he watches curiously as a tingling sensation travels up his spine and a space forms in between him and it.

"Excellent," the shopkeeper rubs his hands together."If you could pass the payment to me..."

He bends down and gathers the shadow in his arms: it is sticky and yet has no substance.

It's laid on the counter, and the dwarf pushes the ring/shield towards him. "Pleasure doing business with you!" he cries cheerily as they walk away.

* * *

Ayra is very angry, both with Nico and herself. Mostly herself.

_I can't believe I went along with it! _she thinks._ He's an Olympian, but I, I should know better! Stupid, stupid... And now he's all smug, thinking he's lost nothing. Honestly, if he smirks that infuriating smirk at me one more time I'll have to force him to shadow travel his way back to camp Half-Blood and face the wrath of the gods..._

She pauses. "Oh, no."

He catches up with her. "Something wrong?"

She looks at him, horrified. "Can you still shadow travel?"

He concentrates for a moment. Nothing happens. "Um..."

"You can't, can you?" she groans. "Fantastic. Fan-bloody-tastic. _It's not like it's doing anything... _Hel if it's not!"

"We can just go back and return the shield–"

"This isn't a department store! You think that dwarf will happily take it back?"

"We'll offer something else for it!"

"Oh, really?" she laughs. "_What? _Your deodorant, perhaps? Do the dwarves have a shortage of toothpaste I don't know about? We have _nothing!_"

"There's always something!"

"No!" she shrieks. "No, there isn't! We have no money, no valuables! This is your entire fault! I told you not to buy that thing, but _no_, the great Nico di Angelo will only ever do what _he_ wants, it doesn't matter the consequences!"

"I made a mistake, okay! You do that too, remember, or was the whole 'I'm sorry' thing in Asgard just an act?"

"How could you even _say _–?"

_SILENCE! _roars Fenrir. _Silence, both of you! The fate of Hades rests in our hands! We have no time for petty arguments!_

Behind them, some weary customer gets into an argument about the price of a dozen arrows.

"I guess, then," Nico replies, purposefully ignoring to Ayra, "we'll have to go and steal my shadow back."


	12. Leita: Find

**This one took way longer than usual to write, probably because I just started school again and I have PILES of homework. Seriously, I knew GCSE was going to be tough, but this is insane. **

**What that means is, unfortunately, updates will take longer. I'll try and get one up every ten days or so, though, never fear!  
**

**This chapter is pretty filler-ish, which I'm not too happy about. But it does introduce some important concepts, and ANOTHER OC. This story is so ridiculously OC heavy that I even hesitate to call it fanfiction! Sorry about that, I hope it's not too complicated to understand.**

**Review for your temporary feeling of self-satisfaction and my eternal happiness!**

* * *

The predominant quality of Hel– once you get over the eeriness of it– is how _boring_ it is.

"I spy," giggles Idun, who's mood comes in two flavours; cry-baby and unfailing, childish optimism, "with my little eye, something beginning with… L."

"It's me, isn't it?" Loki rolls his eyes and kicks a pebble away from him.

He is leading the group; him, Odin (plus his ravens), Heimdall, Thor, Freyr, Freyja, Sif, Tyr, Idun, Njord and Skadi, Mímir clutched under his arm. They traipse along at a phenomenally slow pace because getting to Niflheim is not about how far you travel, but how long you do it for. Idun has been playing 'I spy' for about three hours.

"Right again! Oh, this is so nice," she sighs. "We should go on holiday more often."

"This is not a holiday!" cries Tyr. "We are walking the path of the underworld to escape certain eternal damnation at the hands of a pantheon of psychopaths!"

"Next time we'll stay somewhere warmer, I think. Maybe with a better view. I spy–"

The rest of them groan collectively.

"–With my little eye, something beginning with… M!" they ignore her. "Come on, come on, guess! You'll never get it!"

"Mímir?" hazards Freyja.

"Correct!"

"Wow, first try, too," she mutters to herself.

"I think I can see something in the distance," says Heimdall unexpectedly.

The General, silent until now, frowns. "It should be empty here."

"It looks like a person. No, wait, a couple of people."

The group picks up the pace a little. Idun claps her hands. "Isn't this exciting? See, it can be fun when just work together!"

"Fæn ta deg."

She gasps, her shock trumping her fear of him. "Language, Loki!"

"If someone knocks her out, I don't mind carrying her."

"You're such a joker, Thor!" she begins skipping and singing to herself in a high, sweet and insufferable voice. "Near, far, wherever you are, I believe that the heart does go on… Once more you open the door, and you're here in my heart, and my heart will go on and on…"

"She's singing the Titanic song," whispers Sif, horrified. "Kill me."

Loki can vaguely make out a two figures very far away from them. "I see them, too," he says. "Who in Hel is in Hel?"

"Maybe it's Nico and Ayra!" squeals Idun. "That would be lovely, wouldn't it? All of us together again. He's such a nice boy, agreeing to help us like that. I think she has a bit of a crush on him. So cute!"

"Alright, that's it," the trickster gives her a strained smile. "Idun, we're going to play a new game now, okay? It's called 'who can stay quiet for the longest?' Winner gets a puppy."

"I don't like that game," she pouts. "Can I have a puppy anyway?"

"No."

"It's a boy and a girl, certainly," says Heimdall. "Humans, but–"

His eyes widen, and he begins to run towards the vague shapes. After a moment of shock the others give chase.

As they get nearer their features become clearer. There is a tall, blond teenager and a petite girl of around twelve with dark hair pulled in a bun. He's wearing a waistcoat and white shirt. She's wearing a peasant-dress with an apron.

The Norse recognise them instantly.

"Hello, hello!" cries Eric in Old Norse. "Bloody gloomy out here, isn't it?"

Madeline just waves.

Heimdall stops in front of them and the rest soon catch up. He stares at his son with an open mouth.

"Awfully sorry we got here so late," continues the dead norseling. "I took a wrong turn. Don't worry, we won't be staying for long."

* * *

The stall is gone. Nico swears very colourfully in Ancient Greek.

"Oh, Hel," says Ayra. "Hel, Hel, Hel Hel Hel. Hel!"

The shop that has taken its place is selling pocket watches with a variety of engravings on the back. They all pertain to Norse myths, and one even has Fenrir eating an unsuspecting victim. The wolf finds that very flattering.

"He was here ten minutes ago!"

"He must move every time he makes a sale."

They all glare at the new shopkeeper, a female dwarf who comes over trying to show them a product. Their expressions are hostile enough that she backs away.

"Well," he huffs, "what do you suggest we do now?"

She shrugs. "Customer support?"

"Very funny."

"No, really. I'm pretty sure there's one around here somewhere."

Nico runs his fingers through his hair and tries to find an alternative, unsuccessfully. "… Why not?" he sighs.

* * *

"Welcome, customers of Svartálfaheim," drones the dwarf in front of them, in oddly accented English. "How may I support you?"

The customer support stand is in a dark corner of the market. It is obvious that very few ever visit it. The minder was asleep when they found him, and now that they've woken him up he doesn't seem much more alert.

"Er… we wanted to return an item, but the seller had disappeared," Ayra says.

"Return? You don't _return_ items here."

"We're aware," Nico cuts in. "But we want to find him."

He yawns. "You can try filing in a form, if you want," he pulls out a stack of coloured paper from underneath his desk along with a black biro. "But don't expect anything useful."

"O-okay…"

They move slightly away and scan the sheets.

**CUSTOMER COMPLAINTS AND FEEDBACK FORM (AE08946)**

**The ****Svartálfaheim board of services welcomes all feedback from our patrons! As our members are in an undeviating state of acedia the ripostes to your responses are only being delivered with greater and greater degringoladé, and therefore any implemented submitted vicissitudes will be picayune. **

"What the Hel does that even _mean_?" asks Ayra. "Degringoladé? Is that French?"

"The rest is just as bad. Down here it asks if we found our shopping experience to be 'copacetic, or so grody as to be emetic'."

They slam the papers back down on the counter. "These are useless," she says. "They're just lines of jargon designed to confuse us so that we don't realise that anything we write will be ignored by the board of services."

"There _is_ no board of services," replies the dwarf drowsily. "We throw them out when they're handed back to us."

"Then what's the point of even _having_ customer support?"

"Legal requirement."

"Legal requirement," muses Nico. "Who enforces that kind of stuff, anyway?"

"The elves, of course," the stall minder lays his head back on the table and closes his eyes. "Thank you for visiting customer support," he mumbles, before letting out a long snore.

They traipse away, dejected. "Well, that was pointless," he says. "Elves, huh? I should've guessed."

"Elves…" Ayra's eyes widen. "Elves! We've been thinking about this the wrong way! When demigods get into trouble, they fight, but what do mortals do?"

"I don't know… sue?"

"And how do they sue?"

"With a lawyer?"

"Exactly," she grins. "Let's get ourselves some legal representation."

* * *

The Elvish world of Alfheim was much like the Dwarvish one until around 1920, when one of the ever-enterprising inhabitants suddenly realised that his IQ was far too high for him to spend his time mixing potions.

Instead he became a barrister.

Unfortunately he made absolutely no money, because at that point there was no such thing as a court in any of the nine worlds apart from ours. Punishment was usually doled out by those wronged, and involved death or torture or an embarrassing prank (often a mixture of those three).

That didn't stop this particular elf, however. He gathered up the smartest of his fellows and began a firm. The ingenuity of the plan lay in the fact that they also accused criminals, who were either forced to come to them and pay to receive a lawyer for defence, or reach an untimely and suspicious end.

Their success was so massive that any opposing groups that sprang up were soon squashed down by hired goons or bought out within days. Hundreds of dwarves were hired to look out for illegal activity and threaten people. The new generation flocked to the firm, and now the entire race is made up of solicitors, attorneys and the occasional insurance salesman. The system is effective, but utterly ridiculous. Often the lawyer defending is the same one prosecuting, and has heated arguments with himself. The jury and judge are just other members of the firm. The witnesses are the dwarves working for them.

Some question why a group so corrupt still insists on only prosecuting provable crime. As the great _^*-_*¡_ once said (elvish names are unprintable in human language, as their pronunciation requires a second voice box), "Hel if I know. Now excuse me while I bathe in gold coins with my three wives and smoke a cigar wrapped in one thousand year old Atlantean silk."

* * *

_÷*|≤•_ brushes the cat fur away from his firm-issued green velvet suit and scowls. _I never should have bought that thing,_ he thinks. _Companionship, sure. Leave it to the humans._

_÷*|≤• _looks like most elves; silver-skinned, smartly dressed, with two slits for a nose and pointy ears. He is taller than average for a male at five foot eight, a fact he delights in telling everyone around him. His name sounds like fifteen scratched records playing at different speeds saying the words 'Motor-Oil' with a vague Canadian accent.

Yesterday, he broke up with his girlfriend. Well, more accurately, she broke up with _him_, but that's just a technicality.

Should he call her? She didn't pick up the last ten times… It's worth a shot.

He takes out his mobile, a vaguely banana-shaped device that works in a very complex and unnecessary manner that would take days to explain.

_Ring… ring…. ring…_

_Hi, this is -*{*. I'm not available right now. If you're looking for an attorney, please go through the firm. If not, please leave a message after the tone. And if you're ÷*|≤•, please go find some other elf to bother, you ridiculous, pathetic, asinine ass-wipe. _

"Hey, it's me again," he says nervously. "I rang you before… Maybe you didn't get my messages? Haha. Anyway, how are you? I'm… okay. I miss you. I hope that this fight ends soon. Um… yeah. Please call me back. Please take me back…"

He hangs up.

A second later, his phone buzzes.

He scrambles to pick up. "_-*{*_?" he asks, breathless.

"Erm… no," comes the reply. It's his secretary. "There's some humans out here with their dog. They say they want representation. Came all the way from Svartálfaheim, apparently."

"Go on, then," he sighs, "let them in."

A couple of teenagers stroll in followed by an enormous wolf. They are both pale-skinned, a girl and a boy; she has long, bone-straight, dark red hair with sharp grey eyes (obviously Norse), and he is tall and skinny, strangely menacing.

"Are you available? The firm redirected us," he says, in English, to _÷*|≤•_'s surprise.

"Y-yes, yes I am. P-please take a seat," he struggles in vain to sound professional, his memories of his mortal language course stunted from years of neglect. They sink into the seats, the wolf curling up on the carpet. "Are you in need of a defence attorney?"

"Actually, we want to sue a dwarf for fraud," she cuts in.

"Fraud?"

"We traded something that we then realised we wanted back, but when we returned to the stall the seller was gone. We figure if we can get a court mandate he'll have to show up. "

"…D-did the dwarf promise a return would be possible?"

"… No."

"D-did he lie about the product he sold?"

"…No."

"I am afraid th-that he has not done anything _illegal_…"

"Listen," growls the girl. "This _idiot_ next to me managed to sell his shadow for a shield, and lost our best form of transport in the process. We can't find it, and we _need_ it back. There must be something you can do!"

"Hey!" the 'idiot' protests.

"A- a shield? May I see?"

"Sure," the boy pulls a ring off his finger and passes it to the elf, who starts as it expands when he accidently presses the rune. "I'm Nico, by the way. And this is Ayra."

"I am _÷*|≤•,_"

Nico's mouth drops open. "What did he just say?" he asks Ayra, shocked.

"He's an elf. They have two larynxes," she says, and then turns to the lawyer. "Do you have a name we can pronounce?"

"An old associate of mine nicknamed me 'Motor-Oil'."

"Motor-Oil," sniggers Nico.

Ayra hits him on the back of the head. "Rude!"

"… Sorry."

Motor-Oil returns the shield. "I may be able to help you. However, I do ask a fee."

"About that," she says. "Can you do a loan? Just because my father can pay you back, but he's on the run at the moment."

Rule number one of working for the firm: take every opportunity you can to get more money– even if the client can't pay you back, a visit to the court will fix that shortly. "I can. Flat rate of thirty gold coins, with 1.5% interest."

She gulps. "That's five extra coins a day…"

"You may choose not to believe me, but you will not find a cheaper deal elsewhere."

"Loki's going to kill us," says Nico. "But I think Motor-Oil is telling the truth."

"Fine. We have a deal."

They shake hands. "Excellent," the elf says. "Now, can you go through with me your entire conversation with the dwarf?"

"Sure we can, Motor-Oil," replies the son of Hades, stifling a smile at the moniker. "Sure we can."


	13. Varnan: Warning

**This instalment is early, but pretty short. I just felt like it was a good place to leave the chapter.**

**Also, I'm going to start doing a 'story so far' at the beginning of each chapter, considering how complex things are getting! Hopefully it'll make things a little easier…**

**Poll shows people want more Ayra/Nico. Which makes me very happy. Your wish is my command! There is now a new poll up, asking which **_**character**_** you'd like to see more of.**

**One more notice: if any of you are interested in doing some cover art for this fic, please PM me! You'll get credits in the summary, and it would just be generally awesome. So… yeah.**

**Reviews are so great  
that I will write a haiku  
asking you for them**

* * *

_**The story so far:  
**_

_**A girl, Ayra, arrives at camp, claiming to have lost her memory. Her story is bought by most, but one Nico di Angelo pieces together enough facts (most notably, that she is a Norse demigod) to be confronted by her and nearly killed. However, the escaped wolf Fenrir saves him, and the three embark on a journey to Asgard, with the knowledge of a prophecy predicting them engineering the fall of Hades guiding their every move.**_

_**At Asgard they meet Loki and the rest of the Norse and learn of a great war centuries ago that left Ayra's people defeated. Nico agrees to help them rise up again in the knowledge that it may be the only way to prevent another, bloodier battle.  
**_

_**Ayra and Nico travel back to camp only to find that the Olympians have discovered who she is. They flee to Asgard, but see Valhalla destroyed and the Gods missing. Ayra realises the Norse are on their way to Niflheim, an abandoned ice world found beyond Hel. They decide to get there via the dwarf world, but get side tracked when Nico accidentally sells his shadow. In their efforts to get it back, they visit the Elvish lawyer Motor-Oil.**_

_**Meanwhile, the Norse bump into the spirits of two dead demigods while walking through Hel; and in the sea above them, an ancient sea serpent named Jormungand struggles in his bonds, starving and furious…**_

* * *

The moment he touches the water Percy knows something is wrong.

The ocean feels _afraid_. It's as if the waves are on edge, somehow; at first he thinks it's him, stressed and exhausted by days of wondering how things turned out like this, with one of his closest friends deserting him–

He won't think about that now. Instead he'll try to figure out why the fish circle nervously around his ankles, or why the sand rumbles gently beneath his toes. The restlessness of the sea is nothing new, but this; this is something else, like it's preparing for something _big_.

And then he hears it.

_LITTLE OLYMPIAN, ARE YOU THERE?!_

He gasps and moves to step onto the beach, but the current tugs him further in, encouraging him to listen.

"I… yes, I'm here…" he says, tentatively. "Who are you?"

_I AM THE MIDGARD SERPENT!_

"I'm Percy Jackson," he replies, in what he hopes is a soothing tone. "Do you need help? Where are you?"

_I AM EVERYWHERE, PERCY JACKSON! AND I AM HUNGRY!_

"Hungry?"

_I HAVE AWOKEN! _it screams. _AND I HAVE GONE SO LONG WITHOUT FOOD, PERCY JACKSON! TELL YOUR PEOPLE, LITTLE OLYMPIAN, THAT I AM WAITING! THAT THE NORSE ARE WAITING! THAT JORMUNGAND WILL NEVER SLEEP AGAIN!_

The voice cuts off as abruptly as it had begun.

_The Norse?_ thinks Percy, and then his eyes widen in realisation.

* * *

Nico manages to explain the entire story of how he sold his shadow without laughing, but honestly he finds it nearly impossible. There's something about Motor-Oil the elf that he finds absolutely hilarious; probably the ridiculous name, or the way he looks like a short, sparkly alien, what with the missing nose, spiky ears and silver skin.

When he finishes the lawyer sighs. "This is a difficult case," he murmurs. "I need to–"

An object perching on the desk begins to emit a high ringing sound, flashing frantically. Motor-Oil scrambles for the device, stares at the screen, and shoots off something unthinkingly in Old Norse, tearing out of the room.

Ayra giggles, and Nico turns to her questioningly. "He said 'excuse me, I think my ex-girlfriend might take me back,'" she explains. "Poor guy."

He smiles, and an awkward silence fills the room. A glance at Fenrir reveals the wolf is asleep, which explains why he is being so quiet. Ayra sighs.

Nico coughs and shifts a little. "Um… I'm sorry for selling my shadow and shouting at you."

"It's okay," she replies. "I can't help but notice that all we ever do is apologise to each other. Not exactly a healthy relationship."

"Relationship?" he raises an eyebrow.

"N– no, I mean, I just–" she turns bright red. "I always say the wrong thing around you, don't I?"

"Of course you don't."

"Ugh."

"You don't!"

She rolls her eyes. "Anyway, I shouted, too."

"Yeah, but for a good reason," he says. "I was kind of an idiot."

"Kind of," she sniggers. "Murderousness beats idiocy, though."

"You'll never get over that, will you?"

"What, that I went temporarily insane and tried to kill you? No, probably not."

"I've told you I'm not angry."

"Yes, but I can't help but feel guilty for involving you in all of this," she groans. "I am an awful, awful person."

He shakes his head. "You're unbelievable, you know that? Absolutely, bat-shit insane. Either you're extremely hormonal or you suffer from multiple personality disorder; but whatever it is, stop beating yourself up about the way you are. I don't think it's going to change any time soon. You might as well enjoy being able to change your mood fifteen times per minute and making me frustrated."

"I think you frustrate me more than I frustrate you."

"No way."

"Trust me," she laughs nervously. "I can't believe that I'm actually asking this, but– would– would you consider us friends?"

"Well, yeah… Wait, why are you looking at me like that?"

"Because," Ayra smiles beatifically, "you're the first friend I've ever had."

He stares at her, slack-jawed. "Are you serious?"

"Of course. Now if I die, I'll know there's at least one person my age who cares."

"That's so _sad_," Nico blurts out, unthinkingly. "… Sorry."

"It _is_ sad, isn't it?" she says, perturbed.

"I didn't mean that–"

"No, it _really is_."

"Okay, a bit, but–"

"I'm such a freak."

"You aren't a–"

"I think I should go write a slow-tempo pop song about my pain."

"Wait, what?"

Ayra laughs. "Got you."

"Oh, _very_ funny."

* * *

The Norse stand frozen in front of the two spirits.

"We can only stay for a few minutes, I'm afraid," says Eric. "We just came to warn you–"

"My son…" whispers Heimdall. "My son…"

"Yes, yes, that's me."

"Il faut être rapide," Madeline looks behind her into the gaping vastness of Hel.

"Why is she talking in French?" asks Sif. "Can't she use Old Norse like the rest of us?"

He shrugs. "She won't speak anything else. It's bloody annoying, actually."

"Connard," mutters the young girl.

"Fine, fine," snaps Eric. "I assume you're trying to get to Niflheim?"

"Yes," says Loki. "Why, is there a problem?"

"All I know is I have to relay a message. I have a talent for prophecy, you see. It's not as strong as your seer over there–" he gestures to Mímir, "but apparently what I get is more important, so I have to break out of Hades with the help of a melodramatic French child and come and give it to you, which is a bloody pain in the ass. _Anyway_, here's the message…"

His eyes glaze over and he somehow becomes paler than he was before. "_There is no sky to hold this place,_" he drones, "_look above and Hel will break. Make your journey, but do not cast your eyes too high. Heed this warning or face a shattered world._"

"So basically," asks Freyr, "don't look directly up at the sky? Haven't any of us done that already?"

After questioning, it is astonishingly revealed that no one has. They chalk this down to the fact that Idun was being distracting and that a landscape so bland simply forces you to look at someone else or your own feet.

Tyr sighs. "Well, now it's going to be really hard not to, isn't it?"

Loki nods. "I, for one, am extremely curious as to what's up there. But we'll have to wait. On we go!" he shouts merrily.

"_Loki,_" hisses Freyja, "have some tact."

Heimdall is quietly conversing with Eric. After a minute or so they step away from each other, both parties looking considerably less troubled.

Meanwhile Thor has decided to dispense with pleasantries and is clutching his daughter in his arms, crying what he will later refer to as 'manly tears'. Madeline pats her father uncomfortably on the back. "Tout va bien, papa."

"No," he sobs, "everything will _not_ be okay."

"Madeline," says Eric softly in a rare moment of gentleness, "we need to leave. Hades will notice we're gone."

"Je suis désolée, papa," she pulls herself out of her fathers arms. "Adieu."

The two spirits slowly fade from view.

"She looked just like her mother," mutters Thor. "The same eyes."

* * *

Motor-Oil walks back into his office, carrying a large book.

"How'd it go?" asks Ayra. "Did she take you back?"

"Ah… she said she will take legal action if I ring her again," he plops back into the chair and drops the book on the table. "But I have better news. I know how we can win your case."

"That's great!" Nico sighs, relieved. "What's the plan?"

The elf flips through the book until he arrives at the appropriate page. "You mentioned that the dwarf claimed that no blade can scratch the surface of the shield?" They nod. "Here are the definitions for the word 'scratch'. And definition five is 'to make a harsh noise'. You see?"

"I don't understand," she says.

"May I have your sword, sir?" Nico hands him Epilasis. Motor-Oil drags the blade across the shield; the high, piercing sound makes them all wince, but the metal comes away without a scrape. "It made a harsh noise on the surface. It scratched it."

Ayra splutters. "That has to be the weakest base for a legal case _ever_."

"Actually, for Alfheim, it is quite strong."

"You really think we can get the shadow back like this?"

"If we can get the dwarf to admit to making the claim, then yes. He lied about his product."

"That's ridiculous," she says. "It relies entirely on an arbitrary technicality."

"I think we should give it a shot."

"Not you too, Nico! We'll just end up wasting time on a pointless, unwinnable legal case. We're in a rush as it is."

"Well, do you have any better ideas?"

Ayra huffs and folds her arms.

"So we are in agreement, then," Motor-Oil closes the dictionary. "It will be easy enough to find out which is the dwarf we are looking for, since he will be the previous lease holder for the stall."

Nico smiles. "I'm excited. I've never been to court before."


End file.
